


Blood Magic

by Cumbersome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23186350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumbersome/pseuds/Cumbersome
Summary: An A/U set in 1970s.Hermione is born in an earlier timeline. Firmly on the Light side, she works as an Auror to stop Voldemort and his followers. But it soon becomes apparent that both the Light and Dark are capable of evil. As she struggles with her identity and her place, she finds herself drawn to the Black family and the old traditions.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 200
Kudos: 682





	1. Chapter 1

The air smells of moonlight and mist, of dark wards and blood magic. There is calm. But it is a thin veil, a poorly made mask over certain violence.

Hermione Granger does not believe in Fate. There is no pre-destined path before her. Her destiny is her own, her choices her own. But if she were a suspicious woman, she might shudder at the gates of Black Manor. She might sip the air and taste the history of an ancient line. She might blink and behind the coolness of her eyelids see her own face, twisted and anguished. Shifting, she might see the threads of magic at the tips of her fingers, threads that lead to a very certain Fate. 

Being herself, and being very firmly rooted into what she believes is her reality, she sees none of this. Rather, she sees high gates, behind it an imposing, opulent Manor. She sees thin wisps of clouds drifting over the moon. She sees her hands, pale and still. And she sees wards pulsing around her, humming, threatening. 

Expression wry, she folds her arms and waits. Always the first to arrive, she is. 

The second to arrive is Mundus Body. He appears with a sharp crack, hands moving to adjust his robes, tilting his trilby back on his head. He pats his pocket and retrieves something that looks suspiciously like a muggle cigarette. Spying Hermione, he gives a grin and wink. Ambling closer with a cocky stride, he lights his cigarette with the tip of his wand, exhaling with a smile of pure bliss. 

“Ready?” he asks, cigarette tip glowing. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Hermione says. 

“First time’s always rot on the nerves. Not to worry. We have your back and you have ours. Happy little family, we are.”

She hums. “Surely it won’t come to that.”

“With this lot? Can’t say. Think they’re above us ministry lackeys. What they don’t know is all their pure blood won’t mean shite to the dementor sucking out their happiness through a silly straw.” 

“I’ve never seen one use a straw.”

“Seen a lot in my time,” Mundus says sagely, smirking at her through a trail of smoke. 

Commissioner Abel Needless is third to arrive, followed closely by a quick succession of four Aurors. The Commissioner removes his spectacles, giving the lenses a brusque clean. Replacing them, he levels a stern stare at Hermione and Mundus, his dark eyes shining.

“Put that out, will you,” he gestures with distaste at the cigarette smoke. 

Mundus takes a final deep inhale and stubs the cigarette on the sole of his shoe.

Commissioner Needless watches him with a stony look. Once the cigarette butt has disappeared into Mundus’s robes, he turns his attention to the group of gathered Aurors. He clasps his hands behind his back and adopts an expression of calm confidence. 

“I want this clean and efficient, ladies and gentlemen. No undue threats, no rough handling. We make our presence felt and we leave. We’re here to put them on edge, not to start a war. Clear?” 

There are nods and sounds of ascent and the Commissioner dips his chin. 

“Very good. Wands out, wits sharp.” 

When they are within a foot of the gate, there is another crack and a small elf appears. It regards the group of Aurors with large, dark eyes, its ears quivering. It’s teeth flash and it all but snarls.

“Yous are not invited guests,” the elf says.

Face ever composed, Commissioner Needless produces a thick scroll from his robes and presents it to the elf with a flourish.

“Take this to your Master. I shall wait precisely five minutes before we begin ripping the wards off this fine gate.

Hermione stifles a smile. The elf’s eyes blaze with mutiny but he takes the scroll nonetheless and disappears just the way he arrived.

“The rage on that one,” Mundus comments. “I do so love class outrage. Even from the help.” 

Hermione would like to agree, but she keeps her face still, her wand warm between her fingers. 

At four minutes and fifty seven seconds, the wards drop with a single pulse and the gates creak inward. Mundus smirks and Commissioner Needless gestures the group forward.

Mist shrouding their ankles, they pass along a stretching cobblestone path. Dark hedges loom over them, the leaves filled with tittering creatures. Above them, the moon falls behind clouds and the world is suddenly too dark. They light their wands and press forward, no one commenting on the closeness of the air or the feeling of extreme hostility pressing at their backs. 

In contrast to the outside, the Manor itself is brightly lit and warm, glowing with life. Hermione finds herself curiously casting her gaze about, wondering at all the rooms, all the hidden nooks. She imagines a place such Black Manor must have a magnificent library. 

The books would probably bite your Muggle-born fingers right off, she thinks. She finds the thought amusing and suppresses a chuckle as she follows the other Aurors into a spacious room. 

A large oak desk dominates the room, clearly the Master’s throne. Green flames lick the inside of the fireplace. There are chairs and couches, and seated on those expensive looking cushions are very familiar, very unfriendly people.

The Aurors do not sit. They fan out across the room, Commissioner Needless remaining in the center of the floor, his expression neutral, shoulders relaxed. The Master of the house appraises him with cool eyes, lips thin.

Hermione takes up a place near the fireplace, finding herself with a good view of the Black family. Mundus leans against the wall next to her. He folds his arms and smiles. 

Feeling eyes on her, Hermione moves her gaze until she lands on a familiar sneering face. Bellatrix Lestrange meets her eyes with a mocking smirk, quirking and eyebrow. She flashes her teeth and Hermione feels an old disdain settle in her stomach, cold and oily. She resists the urge to flash a vulgar hand gesture her way. 

Her years at Hogwarts had been seemingly endless and not very enjoyable. She was quick and intelligent, eager to learn. But she was also proud, too proud to tolerate the casual cruelty thrown her way over something as inconsequential as her birth. And Bellatrix Black was a predator, quick to sniff conflict and eager to incite it. They were opposites, clashing, neither willing to cede. 

Now, only air and a few bodies separating them, their history is taut, a fraying rope, a lute string strung too tightly. 

In contrast to Bellatrix, the other Blacks are relaxed, legs crossed, expressions closed. Druella and Cygnus Black sit together, his arm at her back. Narcissa sits away from her sister, her expression mirroring her mother, smooth and emotionless. But her eyes, a startling blue, are on Hermione as well, strangely intent as she watches her face. Dragging her attention from Bellatrix, Hermione meets her gaze. She falters at the curiosity she finds there, feels her rage cool, her own curiosity rising.

“What brings you to my doorstep at this hour, Commissioner?” Cygnus Black breaks the silence. His voice is polite and cultured, but there is something beneath the tone, something seething.

“A simple courtesy,” Commissioner Needless replies. “I find we live in troubling times. Muggles dying in strange ways, magic staurating the scenes of their deaths. I feel it my duty to warn you, sir. There is no place for the old ways in this world.” 

Cygnus chuckles, his dark eyes dancing. “Ah, but you are misguided. There is a demand for the old ways. A return to glory. Tradition is horribly important, after all. In fact, were we following such traditions, I would duel you to the death for bringing this pack of banshees to threaten my family.” 

The Aurors shift at the threat. Commissioner Needless smiles, his head tilting, his glasses flashing in the firelight. 

“Not a threat,” he says softly. “A warning. Your bigotry will not be tolerated. If I should find evidence of your involvement, I will lock you in the darkest, deepest cell in Azkaban. I will personally see every ounce of joy sucked from your pathetic husk.”

Cygnus smirks but his wife stiffens, her face paling. “You dare,” she says, lips twisting. 

“I do, Madame.” 

“How lofty,” Cygnus comments. “So sure your ideals are right.” 

“It is wizard law.” 

“It’s not about blood, you fool,” Cygnus sneers. “It’s about the mockery your Ministry makes of us. How eager you all are to destroy our entire world.” 

“Change is necessary.” 

“Never. We will not bow.” 

“Oh, but you do,” Mundus says, his smile friendly. “Lord Voldemort, isn’t it? Charismatic chap, I hear.” 

Silence. 

Suddenly, Bellatrix laughs, the sound startling in its suddenness. She throws her head back, baring her throat. 

“Sorry,” she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Here I was settling in for a boring night and you lot come here with the most hilarious notions. I thank you, truly. I’ve had such a rotten day and you’ve really perked me up.” 

Cygnus smirks. Commissioner Needless all but quivers with rage. 

“Sir,” Hermione says, pushing herself away from the fireplace. She puts a tone of caution in her voice and the Commissioner snaps his gaze to her, visibly swallowing as he reigns in his emotions. 

“Be warned,” Needless says, his expression dark. 

With that he spins on his heel, the Aurors moving to follow. Hermione lingers, eyeing the Blacks with open curiosity. They return her gaze but it is Bellatrix who rises, moving quickly into her space. She grins, raising a finger to tap against a pale scar on her upper lip.

“I remember this,” Bellatrix says. “I quite enjoy seeing it. It gives me this warm, tingly feeling all over. The idea that I marked that pretty little smug face of yours.” 

Hermione meets her eyes and says nothing. 

Eyes narrowing, Bellatrix steps closer, her breath warm on Hermione’s face. There are storms in her eyes, flashes of something very much like greif. 

“You’re on the wrong side,” she says. “You’ll see that soon.” 

“And who’s side are you on?” Hermione asks.

“My own, of course.” Bellatrix smiles. She pauses, her eyes scanning Hermione’s face. “We’re very alike you know. You and I, I feel this thing between us. Like a beast.” She blinks, considers. “Makes me want a good sandwich, honestly.” 

In spite of herself, Hermione snorts. She steps away, puts space between herself and Bellatrix. The other Blacks watch with intent expressions. 

“Granger.” 

She turns and Mundus hovers in the doorway, eyebrow quirked. 

“Coming,” Hermione says. She pauses, eyeing Bellatrix with a mixture of suspicion and intrigue. She turns and leaves without a word, quickly dispelling the entire forsaken family from her thoughts.

She doesn’t see the eyes watching her leave, doesn’t feel the magic that ties her to the very family she moves away from. But they see it, they feel it in their bones. But then, they very much believe in Fate. 

Sunrise finds her on a familiar doorstep. 

Hermione pauses, her eyes slipping closed. She breathes, taking in the cool country air, frosty on her lungs. There is something frighteningly clean about a new morning, all pretences and masks slipping, everything laid bare. No denial. No hiding. It’s almost too much. She can’t remember the last time she looked at herself and didn’t flinch away. 

“Thought I heard you lurking about.” 

Hermione turns, finds a very pregnant Andromeda Tonks grinning at her from the door of her cottage. There is a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a heavily buttered slice of toast in the other. She passes both to Hermione, leaning up to kiss her cheek. 

Leaning back, she casts a critical eye over her disheveled robes, the dark circles under her eyes. “Late night?” 

Hermione makes noise in the affirmative, mouth full of toast.

“Come on, then. There’s more where that came from.” 

“Mione,” Ted greets her with a grin from over the top of his Muggle newspaper. He whistles as he observes her unkempt state, tsks in sympathy. He pushes the coffee pot across the table. 

Chuckling, Hermione sinks into a chair. Not a moment later Andromeda clatters a plate to the table, piled high with steaming food. 

Hermione catches her wrist as she starts to move away. “Won’t you sit down? There’s no need, really.” 

Andromeda pinches her chin fondly. “You’re sweet. But if I sit still too long this little one starts to dance. I’m afraid she nearly kicked a lung loose last time.” 

Both Ted and Hermione wince. Laughing, Andromeda moves away, busying herself with wiping down counters. 

Disturbed by the amount of energy pouring off a woman very likely to pop any instant, Hermione turns to her food. Ted slides the first page of the newspaper to her side, turning his attention to the second as she shakes out the page and begins to read. They remain like that for a time, a calm little bubble, warm and routine and Hermione feels as if her heart can’t take a single bit more without shattering into a million beautiful pieces. 

“So,” Andy says, finally settling down with her hands around a steaming mug. “How were they?” 

“Imperious,” Hermione replies. “But healthy.” 

Ted takes Andy’s hand, gives it a squeeze. 

Andy sighs. “I wish I could stop caring. If they are doing those things to muggles….” She pauses, jaw muscles twitching. “But I love them. I can’t make it go away.” 

Hermione takes her other hand, strokes her knuckles. “There’s no evidence one way or the other. Merely an assumption based on blood purity. I find the fact disturbing, if I’m honest. How we can claim the high ground and remain as prejudiced as our opposition, I don’t know.” 

Andy shrugs. “I know them. They are fervent in their beliefs. I don’t doubt what they are capable of. And what they’ve done to Bella, I hate them for it. I fear for Narcissa. Sold off like cattle to Malfoy, good for breeding and beautiful face, but nothing else.”

Hermione hums, releasing her hand as she leans back in her seat. 

“I’m sorry,” Andy says, cupping her cheek. “Now isn’t the time. Why don’t you take the guest room? Get some sleep.” 

Hermione smiles, but her eyes are sad, her gaze distant. “Don’t apologize. I can’t imagine how frightening it must be to be able to do nothing at all.” 

“It’s not your place to save them, love,” Ted says. “They make their choices. You’ve made yours.” 

Andy smiles at him and squeezes his hand. Hermione leaves them together, trudging slowly to the guest room. She smiles at the smell of this place, sunlight and fresh sheets. She closes the curtains and shrugs out of her clothes in the darkness, sighing as she sinks into the mattress. Her eyes close and she exhales. Ghostly, her fingers drift to her lips, touching the scar Bellatrix gave her in 5th year. 

It was the culmination of two weeks worth of taunts that came to a head as she made her way to Potions class. There was Bellatrix, smirking, eyeing her with those dark eyes. A flick of her wand and the essays in Hermione’s hands burst into flames, quickly consumed and crumbling to ash. 

There she stood, Andy at her side shouting, hands waving, Bellatrix watching, watching. She looked up and the world had gone hazy, her breath the only sound in her ears. And before she could gather her thoughts, her rational self was sucked down the drain, something savage and enraged overriding her sense of control. She was on Bellatrix, hands twisted in her robes. They fell to the floor, struggling, their bodies tangled and violent, intent on doing each other as much damage as possible. 

And suddenly it was over. Bellatrix was pinned, Hermione holding her wrists to the floor. They stared at one another, panting, oblivious to the clambering around them. For a moment it was only them, and there was something there, some needy, wanting thing. A drop of blood slid down the bridge of Hermione’s nose, stained Bellatrix’s white shirt. They both stared at the blood, watching the red spread.

Hermione released her and Bellatrix sat up until they were chest to chest. She raised a hand, wiped a smear of blood from the corner of Hermione’s mouth. The tenderness of the touch rocked her, made her ache. She felt like she might cry, might just die. 

“Sorry,” Bellatrix said, staring at Hermione’s lips. “I don’t know what comes over me. It’s not who I am.” 

Hermione blinked. Bellatrix’s breath was warm on her lips and she felt herself drawn forward, into her dark eyes, something suspiciously like desire curling in her stomach. Their lips ghosted, barely a breath away. 

And then they were being pulled apart and the shouting of the world came back, thunderous, overwhelming.

Bellatrix escaped with a swollen eye, Hermione with a split lip and a bloody nose. Neither witch healed the wounds, feeling that such an action would somehow erase that brief moment of calm, make it like it never happened. And so they wore their wounds and nodded when they passed. But they never sought one another out. Always there was something between them, be it bodies or walls. They were certain that even a moment alone would be dangerous, would cause the entire world to implode around them. 

And then summer came and when the next school year started, Bellatrix was gone. Graduated. Married off and forgotten. 

But the scar.

Hermione sighs and drops her hand to her side. Her eyes close and she fades away, caught on a drift of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“That,” says Mundus Body, “is a very ugly woman.” 

Hermione eyes the creature and it blinks at her, shows its teeth. It paws through the purse at its feet, comes out with a tube of lipstick. It examines the object, tilting it this way and that. Off comes the lid, rolling away along the sidewalk. The creature’s wrinkly little face contorts as it examines the stick of red. Cautiously, it opens its mouth, lips positioning to take a bite.

“No, no,” Mundus says, waving. “You don’t eat it, mate. You put it on your lips.” 

The creature stares, the lipstick poised at its teeth. Its rather large, sharp teeth. Mundus pouts his lips, drawing his forefinger over them. 

“Colors them, you know,” he says. He kisses the air. “Makes them pretty, yeah? Enhances your natural beauty.” 

The creature hisses. With a careful hand, it smears the lipstick over its lips with broad strokes, painting a red O around its mouth. Mimicking Mundus, it makes kissing noises, seemingly pleased with itself.

“Fantastic.” Mundus beams. “Right, Granger?”

“Beautiful,” Hermione says, her tone dry.

The creature croaks in approval, diving back into the purse in search of other goodies.

“My god.” The Muggle at Hermione’s elbow quivers, swallows. “What is that thing?” 

Hermione smiles at her. “What thing?”

“The thing digging its filthy paws through my purse!”

Mundus shrugs. “I don’t see nothin’. You, Granger?” 

“Nothing. Are you feeling well, miss? Why don’t you sit down a moment?”

“But…” The woman stares at the lipstick smeared creature, her eyes shiny with panic. “It’s right there.” 

Hermione smiles again. “I think you may have suffered a concussion, ma’am. That was quite a fall you took.” 

“What fall?” Her voice shrill now.

“Follow my finger?”

Shivering and wild eyed, the woman watches Hermione’s finger move. She doesn’t notice the wand touch her temple, doesn’t hear the quiet obliviate murmured. She blinks and her chest relaxes, her spine decompressing. There’s a nagging suspicion, she’s sure she locked the front door when she left, but what if she didn’t? What if she goes back and her door is standing open, the darkness inside yawning, some faceless stranger waiting inside for her.

“Ma’am?” Hermione says, touching her elbow, carefully leading her away from the creature plugging tampons up its nose. “You’re sure to miss your bus.”

“Bus. Yes. Thank you.” 

They watch the woman stagger away, disappearing around the corner.

Mundus lets out a breath. “What do you reckon this beautiful specimen is?”

“It’s a ghoul,” comes a soft voice. 

Turning, they find a young man with incredibly pale hair and a large smile watching the creature. 

“A minor ghoul, actually,” he continues. “Not many of them left. They’re harmless. Bit mischievous.” 

“You don’t say,” Hermione says, watching the ghoul upend a box of mints into its mouth.

“Doran Lovegood,” the man says, giving a small bow. “Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.” 

“What an absolute mouthful,” Mundus says. He grunts as Hermione’s elbow digs into his ribs. “Er, what I meant to say is good day, sir!”

Lovegood doesn’t seem to hear them. He drops into a crouch before the ghoul, ignoring the creature’s warning hiss. He smiles and reaches into his robes, retrieving a very large, very bright lollipop. The ghoul freezes, watching the treat as if hypnotized. 

“They love sweets,” Lovegood says. He extends the treat, smiling encouragingly. 

“Lovely,” Mundus says. Retrieving his pocket watch, his checks the time. “Why don’t we bind this beauty up and have a nice fat meat pie for lunch?” 

“Oh, dear.” 

The ghoul stares at the watch in Mundus’s hand, its pointed ears laying flat against its skull. A deep growl rumbles from its chest.

“They hate clocks,” Lovegood says, his face suddenly strained.

“Clocks?” Mundus says. “What a strange phobia.”

And all hell breaks loose.

Hermione pointedly ignores the snickers trailing her, holding herself with as much dignity as she can muster. Her robes are torn, her shirt untucked and ragged, her tie askew. Her normally tidy hair has come undone and grown wild. Her cheek throbs where a set of tiny claws buried into her skin. There are bites on her left thigh, burning with ghoul venom.

“It’s not poisonous,” Lovegood assured her. “Though you may feel a bit...erm, loopy.”

She feels like a smear on the side of the road.

Hearing Lovegood’s warning, Mundus had immediately thrown his watch to Hermione. She caught it without thinking, and suddenly the creature was on her, biting, tearing, howling in fury.

“Hold still!” Mundus called, pointing his wand.

“Bloody hell!” Hermione shouted, scruffing the ghoul, desperately keeping her fingers away from its snapping teeth.

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Mundus said, closing an eye as he aimed. “It’s only a little thing.” 

She fell back, landing painfully as the thing scrambled up her robes, lunged at her face.

“Granger?”

She turns at the sound of her name, frowning deeply, her expression stormy.

The smiling young man falters under her stare, his cheeks flushing a deep pink.

“Uhm,” Smith says, swallowing. “Visitor for you?”

Only then does she notice the young woman at his side. She blinks, scanning the smooth, blank face, the immaculate clothes. Is that laughter she sees in those bright eyes? 

“Narcissa,” she says. She clears her throat, self consciously straightening her tie. “What are you doing here?” 

Something very like a smirk touches the woman’s lips. She allows her gaze to travel over Hermione’s ragged appearance, a single eyebrow raised.

“Really, Miss Granger,” she drawls. “I do remember you being much neater.” 

She hates the way her face flushes under the woman’s gaze, despises that she would even for a moment care what she thinks of her. 

“Yes, well.” She coughs. 

Glancing between the two women, Smith smiles, discomfited. “I’ll be off, then.”

Hermione glowers. “Please.” 

“I wish to speak with you,” Narcissa says, watching the flushing young man scurry away.

Hermione gestures, but Narcissa shakes her head. 

“Not here.” 

Eyes narrowing, Hermione scans her face, searching it for ill intent. She finds none, only a tight, unbending control, a watchful intensity. A strange urge comes over her. She wants to seize the woman, break past that composure, demand to know what has her looking at her like that, like she knows every raw nerve, every secret thought.

Instead she sighs, gives a nod.

They find a table at a small pub, their knees pressing together under the table, voices loud around them. Narcissa toys with a ring on her finger, watching Hermione with her cool gaze, her expression unreadable. 

“Well?” Hermione says.

“I’m not my sister, you know.” 

Hermione smirks. “I’m very aware.” 

“Do you remember me?” 

“Of course. You were always Andy’s favorite.” 

Narcissa ducks her head, a pleased smile tugging at her lips. “Bella hated you and Andy adored you. I always wondered what about you brought out such strong emotions in my sisters.” 

“My natural charisma, I’m sure.” 

“You were kind to me.” 

“You were a child.” 

“Yes. But it was true kindness. So rare to find in my world. I’ve never forgotten it.” 

Hermione shifts, uncomfortable. “Forgive my bluntness, but what is it you want?” 

Narcissa smiles suddenly, her canines sharp, her eyes sharper. “Your help.” 

Hermione says nothing, watching her.

Narcissa looks away from her, her eyes drawn to something outside the window. “Have you ever wanted something so badly that it hurts? It consumes you, your dreams, everything you do and you just can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like an ache, in your stomach. An unquenchable need.” 

“Yes,” Hermione says, her mouth suddenly dry. 

“I want myself. I want to own myself. I want to know who I am and I never want to bow to anyone again.” 

There is vehemence in her voice, a burning in her gaze. Hermione is sure if she were to touch her, her skin would be on fire. 

“There’s a void inside me,” Narcissa continues. “It’s dark and cold and it takes everything, every feeling, every taste, every desire and it destroys them. I feel so….empty. Bella is the same. Her essence is buried under all that madness and none of it is her.”

“Andy is happy,” Hermione says it softly, watching the other woman’s expression.

Narcissa shakes her head, her smile edged and bitter. “She was never like us. Always herself. Alway unafraid. I hated her terribly for it. Now I miss her. And I wish I could be like her.” 

Laying a hand on the table, Hermione presses a fingertip to Narcissa’s knuckle, brushing the skin softly. Narcissa looks up at the touch, something hungry in her eyes. Hermione shivers, but doesn’t pull away.

“Would she see me?” 

“You haven’t asked her?” 

“I’m afraid she would turn me away. I don’t know if I could bear it.”

“Ah, I see. So all this talk to ask a small little favor.” Hermione considers. “How very Slytherin of you.”

Narcissa smiles. 

“Ever had a taco night?” 

“Excuse me?”

“Dinner. Would you like to come to dinner?” 

“Yes. I would very much like that.” 

“Excellent.” Hermione stands, smoothing down her ragged robes. “Meet me here, 6pm.”

“I do hope you’ll have changed your robes, Miss Granger.” Narcissa wrinkles her nose. “You smell like an animal.” 

“It was a ghoul,” Hermione mutters, face heating. “A very aggressive ghoul, in fact.” 

“Oh really?” Narcissa’s eyes dance and Hermione can’t help but be enchanted. She curses herself and wishes she could do anything other than blush. 

“Easy,” Ted says and his voice is a soothing balm on her overheated brain. “Think of something nice. Like chocolate.”

She laughs against his chest, his hand warms on her back. “I can’t think what I’ll say to her.” 

“It’ll come to you.”

“It’s been four years. She must hate me.”

“Hey.” He cups her face in her hands, kisses the tip of her nose. “She will understand. She was always an observant one.” 

She opens her mouth to reply, to voice the thousand and one doubts tearing through her when she hears her name, Hermione’s familiar voice calling from the front door. And then they’re standing in front of her, Hermione watching with that incredibly soft gaze, the colors of her eyes alight, all gold and brown and green. And next to her, looking every bit a woman and none of the girl she left behind, is Narcissa. Her expression is guarded. But her eyes are their mother’s and her smile their father’s.

“Andy,” she says and her voice is sultry, like scotch and cigarette smoke rolling over your tongue. 

Andy squeals, launching herself forward. She’s touching her face, her arms, her hair. 

“When did you get so tall?” She knows she’s crying, but she can’t stop smiling. 

“When did you get so pregnant?” Narcissa replies, smirking down at her belly.

She’s vaguely aware of Hermione nudging Ted from the room and then they’re alone, beaming at each other, hands tangled together. 

“Tell me everything,” Andy says.

And she does.

Hermione hides her smile behind her palm, leaning her face into her hand, elbow on the table as she watches Narcissa poke a taco with the tip of a finger. She looks scanalized, skeptical.

“No silverware?” she says. 

“Not a twig,” Ted declares happily, crunching away. 

“Well, if it would make you feel more comfortable,” Andy says. 

Hermione feels as if her face will split in half. She swallows, biting back laughter. 

“Oh, just laugh already,” Narcissa snaps, eyes narrowed.

Hermione waves a hand in denial, eyes burning with unshed tears of mirth. She’s still not gotten over the Pureblood’s reaction to a light switch.

“Is there a particular end you start with?” 

That’s it. With a gasp and wheeze, Hermione falls against the table, pressing her cheek into the cool wood. She laughs loudly, shoulders shaking. 

Unimpressed, Narcissa picks up a shred of lettuce, popping it into her mouth. “How undignified.” 

“Sorry,” Hermione gasps, wiping her eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone look at a taco like that.” 

Ted begins to laugh, quickly smothers the sound behind a cough as Narcissa’s gaze pins him. 

With as much dignity as she can manage, Narcissa takes a bite of the taco. She blinks, looking down at the food as she very carefully chews. 

“Good?” Andy asks.

“Fucking delicious.” 

Laughing again, Hermione reaches out a hand, using a thumb to wipe a bit of sauce from the corner of Narcissa’s mouth. The blonde’s eyes widen at the affection in the gesture, surprised. Heat spreads over her cheeks and she wishes very much to feel that touch again. 

She feels Andy’s eyes on her, her smirk mischievous. Clearing her throat and eager to push away unwelcome thoughts, Narcissa turns to Hermione.

“Do you live here? With Andy and Ted?” 

“I have my own home.” 

“She uses it to store her books,” Andy comments.

“She’s like a little stray kitten,” Ted says. “You feed her and she comes back every night at the same time.” 

Hermione sticks her tongue out and he laughs. 

The conversation is light, easy. Narcissa feels herself relax, lulled by the warmth around her. 

Later, she finds herself pressed into an overstuffed sofa, her sister curled against her. Ted sits next to his wife, stroking her hair. Hermione lounges at their feet, propped up on her elbows, her nose inches from the book she’s reading. There’s something domestic about it all. It is calm, content. And her, fitted in easily, like a lost piece of the puzzle.

She feels very certain she is exactly where she belongs.


	3. Chapter 3

The night is dark, rain tapping against the window. Narcissa watches the water gather and slide, her arms folded against the chill in the room. There’s a fire, but its warmth is muted, not enough. She is distant, her mood melancholy, her thoughts dark. Her stomach churns, the emptiness in her chest cold, bottomless. 

“Where have you been disappearing to?” 

Narcissa starts at the sound of her voice, turning away from the window with her hand at her throat. Bellatrix leans against the door frame, black eyes flashing. The way she rests there, the tightness of her hands, the tilt of her chin - it’s like an animal. Bristling, salivating, eager to fight. 

Narcissa’s lips twist. Always on nights like this their curse is closest to the surface, straining against their skin, scraping at the backs of their teeth.

“Bella.” She wants to soothe her, to press away the fever heating her sister’s pale face. 

“Where?” Bellatrix pushes away from the door, her movements clipped, lacking grace. 

Narcissa turns back to the window. She feels suddenly tired, her arms heavy, a strange lethargy settling over her mind. “To see our sister.” 

Reflected in the window, Bellatrix stares, her eyes burning. 

“She’s not one of us. Not any longer.”

“Why? Because she doesn’t have this...thing leeching off her? Because she’s happy?”

“Because she belongs to her.”

Narcissa laughs, tastes hysteria on her tongue, bitter, coppery. “And you would give me to Lucius? Bind me to a man I don’t love?”

“It is our duty, little sister. Father says. Doesn’t he?” 

Narcissa spins, catching her sister’s robes, twisting them, bringing her close. 

“I want more. More for us. While you play games, bowing like a slave to that maniac, slithering around in Roldophus’s bed. The Bella I know bows to no one. And yet you grovel like mind-rotted filth.” 

“Careful, Cissa,” Bellatrix says, her voice dangerously soft. “You over step yourself.” 

“We can break this, this compulsion. We can be our own masters. Why can’t you be brave, Bella? Where is your ferocity?” 

Bellatrix shoves her away, her pale hands fisting, face contorting.

“You think I want this? I can feel it, Cissa. Smothering me. Silencing me. I open my mouth to speak and the words turn to ash on my tongue. I deny my husband and my body rebels, commands me to submit.”

“Andy is free.” Narcissa whispers as if in prayer, her lips trembling. “We can stop it. We can rip it from our bodies.” 

“And then who am I? If I am not mad, if I am not destroying, if I’m not setting the world ablaze, what am I?” 

“Whatever you want to be.” 

They fall silent, watching one another, not daring to breathe. 

“She can help us. As she did Andromeda.” 

“Granger.” Bellatrix snarls, the name a stunted thing in her mouth. 

“She set Andy free. We can trust her.” 

Bellatrix wants to curse, to stomp, to rip her hair out. She wants to bleed. More than anything, she wants her thoughts to quiet, for her heart to soften. She wants to think the word love and not feel the violent twist in her stomach. She wants to need and not feel as if her hands are shattering. 

“Speak with her, Bella.” 

“I can’t. It’s always here, Cissa. Stronger for me than you.” 

“Because of her?” 

Of course because of her. The filthy mudblood with her hazel eyes and quick wit, her easy smile and her goddamn beautiful mouth. It was innocent. A thought, a desire. But it was there, bright in her mind. Her father, shifting through her memories, saw it, seized it. His ire was an inferno, terrifying, deadly.

“You will not,” he seethed, her fist tangled in her hair. “Not that filth, that impure blight. Not a daughter of mine.”

“Please,” she said, eyes bright with tears, her face twisted with fear and pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry!” He boomed. “I forbid it. I swear by Merlin I will denounce you, girl. I will destroy you before I will see our name tainted.” 

And so she was Bound, her voice crushed, her will shackled. Runes were etched into her back, binding her to her Father’s wishes, and when the time came, her husband. Any flicker of disobedience and the voices howled in her mind, seized her, hands about her throat, choking the words from her mouth. 

Obey. Submit. 

A mantra in her head. And when she was near, it was like death. The voices whispered, conjoled, encouraged her cruelty, demanded she blood the bitch. Rip her apart.

For Narcissa, it was a rite of passage. On her 13th birthday her Mother took her hand and told her what a good girl she was. 

“They like us best like this,” Druella explained. “A lady should always obey.” 

It was a blackness over her, thick, impenetrable. She was a dead thing, floating through airless space, unseeing. Suddenly, it was all out of reach, all those things that made up her sum. Her joy, her passion, her curiosity. Even her anger was a dull thing, rusted and ill-used. There was only the emptiness, the gray of a blank existence. 

There were days when she could almost reach herself, and she yearned, ached desperately. But they were too few and her heart was a tender, misbegotten thing. 

“Bella,” Narcissa says, taking her hand. “Speak to her. She is ours. She bound herself to us the day she freed Andy.”

It’s true, those translucent strands of magic, humming between her and them. Always there, tangled at their wrists, glowing around their chests.

Teeth gritted, Bellatrix nods. 

“Thank you.”

Narcissa turns back to the window, once again watching the rain.

She’s being followed.

A walk would be nice, she had thought as she left the Ministry. Clear the mind, stretch the legs. Nevermind the darkness, the fog. She’s a witch, afterall. She has a wand and an excellent right hook. Hermione Granger does not fear things that go bump in the night.

The back of her neck tingles, a chill on her spine. She can feel the other’s presence, drifting close, nipping at her heels, until it suddenly withdraws, skulking on the edges of her awareness. They toy with her, something vicious and amused in their energy.

She waits until they dart close, a futter of dark robes. She spins, hurling herself at the figure. They collide, tumbling into a wall. She feels herself pressed into a warm body, a familiar face looking up at her with surprise.

“Always so physical, Granger,” Bellatrix drawls. “So uncivilized. Scrapping in the street like a common mudblood.” 

“You.” Hermione growls. “Crawled out of your coffin early, Lestrange?” 

The smaller woman snarls, twists. She’s strong, all fury and wiry strength. Hermione finds their positions reversed, her hands pinned above her head, her body caged by Bellatrix’s arms. She bucks, unwilling to be trapped, but Bellatrix grins, seemingly delighted by her struggle, grips her wrists until her nails bite into her skin.

“Now, now. I only want to talk, Granger. Just us girls.” 

Hermione shudders, a dark echo ringing through her mind, distant pain burning up her forearm. It’s as if she’s been here before, those very words slithering from the dark witch’s mouth, twining around her, suffocating her. 

“I hate you, you know.” Bellatrix says it casually, watching her face.

“I had a feeling, yes.” 

Giggling, Bellatrix leans close, pressing her cheek against her jaw. Hermione winces as she feels her teeth, a playful nip. She jerks against her, shoving with her shoulders.

“Ah, ah,” Bellatrix smiles. She loosens her grip on Hermione’s left wrist, presses her fingers into her palm until she finds the scar there. “I know what this is.” 

Hermione freezes, suddenly cold. 

Bellatrix strokes the scar, hums. “Andy’s. I love it. A scar for me, a scar for Andy. Tell me, when does ickle Narcissa get her scar? Little muddy girl, so eager to give. Are you eager to be her hero, too? To set her free?” 

“Let me go.” Her stomach twists, knotting painfully. She tastes bile, revulsion.

“Do you get off on it? Being the good one? Don’t you know there are no villains, Granger? Everyone's a hero in their own story. Justified. Righteous.” 

“What do you want?” She says it because she can feel the need pressing against her, the shaking in Bellatrix’s hands. Her mouth is twisted and ugly, but there’s light in her eyes, something desperate.

Inhaling sharply, Bellatrix seizes her face, presses their foreheads together. “I don’t know. I want everything and nothing. I want a warm room and a good book. I want to kiss your stupid muddy mouth. I want to be myself.” 

Understanding coming over her, Hermione places her hands over Bellatrix’s cold fingers. She wants to wrap her in her arms, to warm her, to protect her. She wants to touch her face, erase the worry creasing her brow, to ease the strain in her shoulders. 

“Why do you fight me?” Hermione whispers.

“Because I have to.” 

“You don’t. You can be whole. Free.” 

“And you would? You would make that sacrifice?” 

“Yes.” 

Snarling, Bellatrix wrenches away, severing their contact, leaving Hermione cold and reaching. 

“Merlin, you’re so pathetic,” Bellatrix sneers. “You think you can fix everything. Well you can’t, you ignorant girl. Damn you!” 

And she’s gone, the fog swirling to inhabit the space her body occupied. Hermione crumples, sudden grief overwhelming her, crushing her into the ground. 

What a bloody idiot she’s been. So sure of her own superiority. Her moral high ground. 

Andromeda had shown her the runes one night, the castle asleep around them. Her hands trembled as she removed her shirt, her shoulders rounded, desperate to protect herself. Her shirt slipped down her arms and Hermione gasped, hand reaching toward the runes, ghosting over them. They were dark, scarred things on her back, deeply engraved, emanating heat and power. 

“What are they?” she asked. 

“Bindings,” Andromeda said, the muscles in her jaws jumping. “Every pureblood girl receives them. The conditions of the Binding are set by our parents. They are to ensure our obedience, our mindfulness of tradition. And when we’re married, the Binding alters to our husbands. Whatever he wants. When you resist, when you break the rules….it’s as if your skin is being stripped away, your bones shattered.” 

Hermione thought back to all the days Andromeda disappeared, returning pale and fragile, eyes ghostly. Punishment for disobedience. 

“It’s different for every woman, manifesting to inhabit whatever they fear the most. It’s pain for me.”

“How can they?” Hermione was aghast, sickened. Hesitant, she reached out a hand, cupped the back Andromeda’s neck. The other girl leaned into her, accepting her comfort, allowing her to wrap her arms around her. “What can I do?”

Andromed laughed, reaching a hand over her shoulder to brush her friend’s cheek. “You can’t fix everything, Mione. Some things just are.” 

“No. I won’t accept that.” 

Andromeda sighed, pulling away and tugging up her shirt. She set about buttoning it, watching her friend with sad eyes. “Always the idealist.” 

It took two weeks and a midnight excursion into the Restricted Section that set every book in the place howling. But she found the answer. 

“It has to be storming,” she explained to Ted. “And she mustn't find out what we’re up to. If she does, the curse will compel her to resist. It could kill her.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his worry plain. 

She bit her lip, casting a glance at her notes. “Yes. But you have to understand. She will fight us. You have to be prepared. You can’t listen to anything she says. If we don’t do this, she’s a slave for life, Ted. You’ll never be together.” 

And so, the next storm found Hermione and Andromeda hand in hand, Hermione leading her friend through the rain, her face pale in the flashes of lightning. 

Andromeda giggled, thinking it a game. She screamed in surprise when Hermione bound her, struggling against the ropes, shouting. She stilled as Ted came to them, his curly hair plastered to his head with rain.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her eyes suddenly dangerous.

“Don’t speak to her,Ted,” Hermione warned.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What shall I do?” 

“Hold her.” 

And he did. As Andromeda thrashed and screamed, he held her, his face twisted, his tears lost in the rain. 

Hermione began to chant. She spoke to the sky, an old language newly familiar to her tongue. She had practiced. Over and over until the words were perfect. And now she screamed them, her intent as harsh and strong as the storm raging around them. She ignored Andromeda’s cries, Ted’s sobs. She was focused, her hand pressed to the runes burned into her friend’s back.

At the height, when the words were said, she pulled Andromeda to her. She wanted to reassure her, to take back the pain arching through her body. 

“Please,” Andromeda whimpered.

Hermione ignored her, knowing she would falter if she let her in.

“I bind myself to you,” she whispered, freeing Andromeda’s hands. “I bind my magic to yours, my blood to yours. I will share your pain. I will share your joy. I renounce your blood ties, for you are mine and I am yours. You are your own and your will is absolute.” 

With her wand, she cut her palm, and then Andromeda’s. She pressed the wounds together, twining their fingers, mingling their blood. There was pain, blinding, ripping through her, obliterating her thoughts, blacking her vision. She did not see the magic burst around them, but she felt it, changing her, tearing her apart. 

It was done. Andromeda was unconscious, Hermione wavering between awareness and a dim greyness.

Ted collapsed to his knees next to them, awestruck, bewildered. 

“What have you done?” he asked, reaching for Andromeda, not touching her, too afraid.

Clutching Andromeda’s face to her chest, Hermione breathed. She breathed and willed the pain away, blinking through the haze over her eyes. 

“You can’t destroy the Binding,” she said. “You can only create another.” 

“And so you Bound her to yourself?” Anger flashed across his face, his hands fisting. “How could you? Without her consent?” 

“The curse would never allow her to agree.” 

He looked down on Andromeda, his gaze infinitely tender. “Will she still love me?” 

“For fuck’s sake. Of course. I did this so she can, you idiot. What do you think I am?” 

He looked at her then, a grin splitting across his face. “A bloody brilliant witch.” 

And so, breathing fog and aching at the pain in Bellatrix’s eyes, Hermione feels the magic that binds her to Andromeda thrum. 

She doesn’t believe in Fate. But she believes nothing is beyond repair. She believes in her own power.

Most of all, she believes in magic.


	4. Chapter 4

For once, the sun breaks through the clouds. 

“Really, is all this necessary?” Narcissa asks, squinting and raising a hand to shield her face. “I can practically feel my skin sizzling.” 

Andromeda gives a snort and picks up a towel, transfiguring it into a large, floppy hat in short order. She places the hat on Narcissa’s head as if crowning a queen, giving it a pat to settle it into place. 

“There,” she says, smirking. “Lovely.” 

“Very nice,” Ted chimes in. He removes his shirt and gives a flex. “What do you think, love? Adequate?” 

“You’ll do,” Andromeda says, dreamily eyeing his stomach. 

“Merlin’s infected testicles,” Narcissa mutters. “Wipe the drool off yourself, woman.” 

Andy sighs, fanning her face with a hand. 

Narcissa had sniffed at the idea of a garden, but Andy beamed and Ted was all too happy to grub through the dirt if it kept a smile on his wife’s face. He sets about arranging the gardening tools as the witches settle in the shade. 

And so a bewildered Hermione finds Ted on his hands and knees, trowel in hand, carefully supervised by the Black sisters. 

“Darling!” Andy cries, spying her face peeking around the corner of the cottage. “You’re just in time.” 

“Uhm,” Hermione says uncertainly. 

Narcissa tips a pair of Muggle sunglasses down her nose, eyeing Hermione over the frames. “We’re gardening.” 

“Aha.” Hermione surveys Ted. His face is smeared with dirt, bits of grass in his hair. “From here, it looks like you’re sitting on your bum.” 

“I burn,” she says simply, returning the sunglasses to their place.

“My ankles are swollen,” Andy adds. 

Leaning back on his heels, Ted swipes at his face. He grins at Hermione’s glance, shrugs. 

“Well, then.” Shrugging out of her robes, she kicks off her shoes and socks, makes her way to Ted’s little plot of chopped up ground. She sighs loudly, digging her toes into the dirt, tilting her face to the sun. She doesn’t notice Narcissa’s sunglasses slip down again, or Andy’s pointed nudge in her sister’s side. 

“Go ask her what a lawnmower is,” Andy whispers. 

Narcissa frowns at her. “I don’t care for your Muggle sorcery.” 

“Don’t be a cow. Go talk to her.” 

“Did you just call - “ 

Andy snaps open her magazine, humming under her breath. 

With a glower that could melt iron, Narcissa stands. She removes the ridiculously floppy hat from her head. She quickly combs her fingers through her hair, gives her borrowed Muggle shirt a self-conscious tug. 

Silly girl, she chides herself. She is Narcissa Black. Beautiful, elegant, charming, fashionable - well, she could go on for ages. 

But somehow, looking at the woman on her hands and knees, up to her wrists with dirt, she feels herself wilt. Perhaps she was hasty. Perhaps she should sit back down, bury her face back in her book and not once glance Hermione Granger.

“Don’t you dare,” Andy mutters. 

Narcissa sighs. 

Hermione raises her eyes as Narcissa’s shadow falls over her. She smiles and Narcissa feels herself respond in kind. Suddenly her mouth is dry and she is counting the freckles on her nose, admiring the gold in her eyes. 

So engrossed is she, she doesn’t feel the silence drag on. Hermione’s smile falters and she frowns, a flash of concern.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

Narcissa hums. “Very.” 

“Oh.” Hermione glances at Ted. He shrugs. “Well, good.” 

“Would you like to walk with me?” Narcissa asks. 

“Erm, well, I - “

“Go on, Mione,” Ted says. “I think I’ll take a break myself.” 

Narcissa graces him with a smile and he grins back, mischief in his eyes. 

They leave the little cottage behind, disappearing into the line of trees that border the property. They don’t speak, comfortable in silence, allowing their eyes to drift and wander. Pine needles crush under their feet, branches whispering above their heads. The air is different, cooler, delicate. There is something intimate about the silence, as if they are the only souls left in existence, orbiting each other, not daring to touch, afraid a hasty breath will shatter the moment.

“It’s been like a dream,” Narcissa says after a time, pausing to lean against a tree. She crosses her arms, looking down at her feet as she toes a line into the ground. “I was so sure I would never see her again. But she was here, waiting.” 

“Does that upset you?” Hermione asks, watching her face.

“I’m angry with myself. I’ve always been a coward. Happy to dream of better things, but never brave enough to manifest them. I envy Andy that. Bella, too. They’re so sure of themselves, what they want. I try to imagine it, but I can’t keep my hands on the idea. Every time I think I know, it slips away and I’m unsure.”

Carefully, slowly, Hermione touches her hand. She watches as the backs of their fingers brush together, their wrists kissing, their fingertips grazing. Taking her hand fully, Narcissa touches the scar on her palm, reverence in her touch. She presses her thumb to it, looks into Hermione’s eyes. 

“This is beautiful,” she says.

“Did you know when it happened?” Hermione asks.

“We felt it. One moment she was there, just at the edge of our awareness. And then she was gone. Silent.”

“Was it painful?” 

Narcissa’s eyes are dark. “Imagine losing a piece of yourself.”

Hermione shudders. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why? You gave her a chance.” Narcissa’s voice is suddenly dull and she looks away. “I don’t think even you fully understand what you did. She is bound to you, but you’ve tied yourself to us, to each of us. You belong to us now.” 

Hermione recoils, jerking her hand away from Narcissa’s stroking fingers. “I don’t belong to you,” she says, eyes flashing.

“Oh, but you do, darling. That’s how blood magic works. My sisters and I are bound together, indelibly. We have been since birth, and we will be until we die. You may have taken control from my Father, but you all but threw open the door to your own soul. Now we have a claim on you, a little piece for each of us.” 

She wants to reject the notion outright, but she feels the truth in the words. It’s old magic, ancient and primal, calling to buried instincts, possessive urges. 

“I wanted her to have a choice,” she whispers.

“Far too noble,” Narcissa says, a madness much like her sister’s edging her smile. “That’s your flaw. You care too much. People like my sisters and I, we are born to take. It’s in our nature.” 

“And if I’m willing to give?” 

“You’re a fool,” Narcissa says, but her voice is soft. She reaches out, catching Hermione’s arm, pulls until they’re sharing air. She splays her fingers over her chest, traces her collarbone, smoothing a hand over her throat, caressing the back of her neck. 

Hermione takes a shuddering breath at her touch, swallowing dryly, and everything is suddenly just too much. Narcissa is too beautiful, her eyes too deep. They’re standing too close, the thin slip of air between them burning. 

“Merlin, but I would devour you,” Narcissa murmurs. She brushes her nose against her cheek, ghosts her lips over the corner of her mouth. “But I can’t. The more I think about you, the less I feel. Can you imagine it? It’s like hearing a love song in a language you don’t speak. You know the intent, but you can’t understand a damn bit of it. You can’t make it real.” 

Pulling away, Hermione looks into her eyes. “Is that why you’re doing this? Because you want me to break the Binding?” 

“I want you, you little idiot,” Narcissa says. “Is it so hard for you to believe?” 

“I have the power to change your life forever, is it unfair to wonder at your motives?” 

Narcissa laughs, low in her throat, her eyes full of darkness. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” 

“You know you don’t have to.” Andromeda says.

They’re sitting by alone, Hermione at Andromeda’s feet, idly plucking loose strands from the rug. She stares into the fire, feels a dull ache in her chest, a weariness that blooms behind her eyes. She sighs as Andromeda tangles her fingers in her hair, her eyes slipping closed. 

“How can I not? Knowing what it does to her.” 

“Is that it then? Or do you plan to make the same offer to every Pureblood witch you encounter?” 

“Only the beautiful ones.” Hermione smirks.

“Very funny.” She gives her a playful swat. “You should be careful. That’s what I’m saying.” 

“You don’t trust them?”

“Definitely not. Think about it, love. Years spent under a curse, twisting you to the whims of others. You can’t imagine what it does to your mental state.” 

“You turned out alright.” 

“I spent less time under the curse. Cissa and Bella have dealt with it for years. And you, you can’t back out of it once it’s done. You are not placing any restriction on the Binding and you will be as vulnerable to them as they are to you.”

“Andy.” She wraps her fingers around her ankle, willing her to break off her diatribe and look at her. “I know.” 

The first few weeks after the Binding, Hermione had been in a sensory overload. Andromeda’s emotions crowded her own, at times overwhelmed her, smothered her. Her happiness, her anxiety, knots of anger. Once she caught herself eyeing Ted in a less than respectful manner. It took time to displace those feelings, to seperate them from her own. 

Still, when the emotions are strong, she can feel them mix with her own, can feel an echo of the other woman in her mind. 

She dreads to think what the others will feel like, fears the intensity of their emotions. More so she fears what they will see of her. 

Andromeda’s arms settle around her shoulders, squeezing. 

“You’re thinking too loudly.” 

She smiles, reaches up to hold her hand. 

“Well,” Andromeda says. “If you’re sure, I have just the thing to help you with Cissa.” 

She deposits a book in her lap. Hermione runs her fingers over the cover. It’s old, the pages yellowed, the binding frayed. It smells of ink and dust and faded sunlight.

“Portkey,” Andromeda says. “It will take you somewhere safe, somewhere isolated. In fact, I hear it’s due a nasty storm soon.” 

“And Bellatrix?” 

Andromeda lets out a laugh, teeth flashing. “That’s all you, love. Be ready to take a good arse kicking.” 

Narcissa smiles when Hermione places the book in her hands. She presses it between her hands, running a finger over its cracked spine. 

“What’s this?” she asks. 

There’s a look in Hermione’s eyes, something feverish. It gives her pause, tightens her shoulders. 

Without a word, Hermione places a hand on the book and it begins to glow. Eyes widening, Narcissa gives a startled cry, tries to drop the blasted thing. But Hermione’s hands are over her own, holding her, refusing to let her go.

A pop and stomach churning twist later, she’s sprawled on a cold floor, the book spinning near her head. Beside her, Hermione groans, struggling to her knees. There’s a deep rumble and lightning flashes, jagged as it illuminates their faces. 

With the aid of a nearby chair, Narcissa pulls herself to her feet. Unsteady, she blinks, looks around. 

The air smells of dust and damp. Yellowed sheets cover the furniture. The fireplace is cold and empty. Bay windows dominate the far wall, looking out over a black ocean, a churning sky. 

Realization coming to her. With the suspicion, she feels her body begin to react, the curse coiling, tightening around her throat. She turns to Hermione, finds her watching with cautious eyes. 

“I haven’t been here since I was a child,” Narcissa says, drifting to the windows. She looks out at the sand, the jagged rocks on the shoreline. “I buried Bella up to her neck, once. Just there. Near those rocks. She was furious with me. Threatened to feed me to the crabs.” 

“Narcissa.” Hermione says. 

“You must be quick. I won’t last long.” 

“I know the rules.” Hermione acknowledges. 

Thunder rumbles again, the floor shuddering under their feet. Hermione takes a step and Narcissa screams, doubling over. Sharp pain shoots through her back, her chest, crippling her. Something slithers between her ribs, crowding into the small cavity, growing, butterflying the bones until they crack and splinter. Cold, sharp teeth nibble at the ragged edges, licking at the marrow and she howls.

A hand settles on her and the pain doubles. She twists, struggles, desperate to be away from that burning hand. Wherever it touches erupts, the skin feeling as if it sloughs off her bones at the contact, melts from her flesh in a steaming puddle. 

She’s stronger than Hermione expected. She tries to hold her, but she arches violently, bending, and suddenly they’re falling, glass shattering around them. They crash through the window, fall to the sand below in a tangle of limbs.

The air driven from her lungs, Hermione gasps. She blinks, the iron sky above her spinning. Ears ringing, she rolls onto her side, finds Narcissa close. She’s bleeding, whimpering, rain and blood washing over her skin. 

She touches her cheek and she screams. Quickly, she seizes her, straddling her hips, clinging to her as she bucks and twists below her. She catches her wrists as her hands fly at her, holds them to her chest. 

The air vibrates around them, the crack of thunder too close, smelling of ozone and fire. 

She begins the chant.

Narcissa stiffens at the words, her mouth clamping shut. Her eyes fix on Hermione’s face, the blue disappeared, consumed by black. Her jaw trembles, her pulse visible in her neck, a wild thing, frantic, desperate. 

The chant done, she takes Narcissa’s face in her hands, pressing their foreheads together. She speaks again, the same words she whispered to Andromeda on another stormy night. At the end of them, she presses close, skin to skin, the blood from their cuts mixing, burning, merging. 

She feels the magic grow taut between them, straining to touch, repelling like opposites. And then, like a star dying, their magic meets, collapses before it swells and breaks open, a brilliant burst of heat and light. 

In its cool center, the women sag together, a mess of blood and rain and fumbling words. 

Hermione opens her mouth, wants to speak, but she feels as if the sky is pressing down on her, flattening her. Her chest is full, a swirl of awe and confusion, but more than that, relief, elation. It’s as if she’s being lifted up, a burden of death banished, a clarity so bright and clean that it burns her. 

Narcissa blinks, stutters. Rain gathers in the corner of her eyes, trembles on the tips of her lashes. She looks up at Hermione, touches her face. She gasps at the shock of it, the feel of her skin. It’s as if she’s spent her life with a layer of ice between her and the world, isolating her, stealing her sensation. Now it’s gone and everything is so warm. 

Taking her face between her hands, she kisses her. She’s never tasted anything better in her life. There’s blood and salt, but something uniquely her. Something furiously alive, a sweetness with sharp teeth.

Hermione shudders against her mouth, says her name. 

“We can’t,” she says. “You’re feeling everything at once.” 

“I don’t care,” Narcissa says. She wants to shout, to dance, to run until she falls. She presses their lips together again, desperate to taste her, to claim her. 

Hermione pulls away, her eyes dazed, her lips bruised. “I can’t even think,” she mutters. “It wasn’t like this with Andy.” 

Narcissa slips her hands under her shirt, presses her palms against her stomach, delights at the feel of the muscles trembling under her touch. 

“Don’t say her name,” she says. Because she can’t bear to think of it, the idea that she has to share infuriating her, fanning something violent in her. It’s too soon, too much.

She moves to kiss her again, but she is pressed away. 

“No.” Hermione says. “I want to, believe me.” Her eyes slip closed and she shudders at whatever she sees there. “But we’re not thinking clearly. I don’t want you to regret it.” 

“I could never regret you.” She is surprised at the sincerity she feels at the words, the fervent need to express, to prove her loyalty.

Hermione smiles at her, presses a brief kiss to her cheek. 

“I don’t think I can Apparate,” she says, staggering to her feet. “My magic is blown.” 

“I can repair the window,” Narcissa says. She accepts Hermione’s hand, allows herself to be pulled up. 

“And these,” Hermione says, touching a cut above Narcissa’s eye, her regret sharp and acrid along their link.

“Later,” Narcissa says. “They’re shallow.” 

Weightless, bleary, they lean against each other and make their way back into the house. Lips and fingers numb, Narcissa repairs the window, shutting out the howling storm. After she takes Hermione’s hand and leads her to a bedroom, ignoring the ghosts of memories drifting along the walls. The bed is dusty and creaky, but they can’t find it in themselves to care. Two drying spells later, they tumble onto the mattress.

Narcissa presses close to Hermione’s back, surprised at the warmth of her, the softness of her skin. Gingerly, she curls against her, placing a tentative hand on her hip. She’s sure she’ll die when Hermione takes her hand, pulling her arm around her waist, tucking her palm against her chest. 

She doesn’t want to fall asleep. She’s afraid of what she’ll miss, afraid of the time squandered. But a flutter of eyelashes later, her breath deepens and she loses her grasp on the world, slips into darkness. 

Her dreams are not her own, but they are beautiful. They feel like a new beginning, a bright start. They feel like destiny.


	5. Chapter 5

The moon is bright, the sky cloudless. The garden smells of rosemary, of dew and stone. 

Bellatrix twirls her wand, taps it against her lips. Shifting from foot to foot, she scratches at her throat, her face. It’s as if her skin is stretched too tightly over her bones, holding her back, constraining her. She’s buzzing, vibrating with magic and an excess of energy.

“Bella.” 

She spins at her name, her wand pointed. She does not lower it as her gaze falls on her sister. Her beautiful, ignorant, traitorous sister.The energy inside her increases, a harsh whisper sliding over her ear.

Kill her. Destroy the traitor. 

“You,” she says, malice dripping from her teeth, gathering over her tongue. “I should gut you where you stand.” 

“Really, Bella,” Narcissa says. “Don’t be dramatic.” 

“You let her touch you! With her muddy wuddy grubby hands!” 

An eyebrow arched, Narcissa seats herself on a bench, settling her robes as she crosses her legs. 

“I’m glad you’ve come,” she says. “I had expected to find myself quite alone.” 

“Like me?” Bellatrix says, her grin maniac. “Just me and the bloody empty air.” 

“It won’t be long,” Narcissa says. “You will be with us again.” 

Her mind hisses at the thought. She has thought of it before, her hand on her wand, the tip on Rodolphus’s throat, the spell just there on the edge of her teeth. And then the voices….how they howled, how they tore at her, their teeth savage.

Thinking it now, she trembles, her fingernails digging into the palm of her hand. 

Now, now, pet. We would rather die, wouldn’t we? 

Oh yes. She would happily tear the veins from her wrist before she would let another touch her. She’s a good puppy. Good bitch.

She recoils at the words. Not hers. But then, nothing is hers any longer. 

“I’ll kill her,” Bellatrix vows. “If I see her face again, I will wipe her from this earth. It’s her or me, Cissa. And I quite like myself.” 

Narcissa’s eyes are the sea, stormy, roiling. “I didn’t come to cause you pain, Bella. I want you to know it is achievable. It’s possible.” 

“No!” Bellatrix screams, slamming the butts of her palms into her temples, desperate to drown out the sudden cacophony of rage thundering through her mind.

Kill her!

Kill the bitch!

Kill yourself! You’re worthless! 

End it!

End it!

Through the voices, a shearing pain burns up her forearm. She gasps, slapping a hand over the Dark Mark on her arm. She feels it coil, writhing against her skin. It grounds her, brings her back. 

Chest heaving, she grins at her sister, fire in her eyes.

“I’m off to do the work of the righteous, sister. Be sure to tell your pet I said hello.” 

And she’s gone, twisting into black smoke. 

“By Merlin’s crusty toes, this is delicious,” Mundus declares. His desk is a battlefield of Chinese take-out cartons, leaning stacks of parchment, an assortment of gentleman’s beard combs. He points a pair of chopsticks at Hermione, a noodle disappearing between his lips. “Must say, Muggles have a bit of magic of their own in the kitchen.” 

Hermione opens her mouth to tell him to shove his chopsticks up his arse when the door to the Commissioner’s office springs open, doorknob slamming into the wall. The man himself strides out, hat on, spectacles glinting.

“Everyone to the Apparition point,” he calls, voice carrying over the cubicles. “There is an attack on a Muggle village. Several aggressors, cloaks and masks. You’re to engage with extreme prejudice, ladies and gentleman. I want them dead or in Azkaban by the end of the night.” 

Eyes catching Mundus over the top of her cubicle, Hermione grabs her robe, shrugging into it. 

“Steady on, Granger,” Mundus says, falling in step with her. “Keep your wits about you. Stay with me, yeah?” 

She nods. 

She’s not prepared for the sight that greets her as she Apparates next to the small fishing village. 

Devastation. Smoke so thick it chokes the air. Fire, as brilliant as a new sun, consuming the small houses and shops, brightening the sky with a bloody light. Her heart begins a frantic beat as she hears the screams, sees the people running.

Then she sees the masks. They’re alien to her, full faced, thin slits to see through, unfamiliar runes carved into the silver surface. They’re death masks, grinning, cruel. 

“With me,” Mundus says, rushing forward. 

She follows and is immediately pulled into the battle, ducking to avoid a bright spell aimed at her head.

Her first day of Auror training, her instructor had tsked at her, lips pursed, hands on her hips. 

“Is that how you stand, Granger?“ Amelia Bell said. “Like a nice, polite lady? Off to the dance are you?” She snorted. “That stance is all well and fine when you have tournament rules to protect you. But facing a Dark wizard? Use it all, girl. Use your body. Use your surroundings. Kill the bastards, girl. You or them.” 

Hermione is nothing if not an overachiever.

She moves by muscle memory, twisting, coaxing her body to flow from one fluid stance to another. Shoulder to shoulder with Mundus, they press forward, throwing themselves into the thickest fighting. They are extensions of one another, one offensive, one defensive, changing roles as needed. 

And then something changes in the air, tightens, screaming louder than the spells smashing into the ground around them. 

A spell howls her way and she throws up a shield. She spots the caster, a willowy figure with the grace of a dancer. Their eyes catch, spark. 

“With me!” Mundus screams.

But she’s already moving, sprinting. The caster drops into a crouch, wand weaving. She can’t hear the spell over the shouts, the burning spells. She dips, hand catching a piece of splintered wood. Keeping momentum, she arches it through the air, catching the caster in the bottom of the mask, snapping their head back. They crumple, their cry lost in the sound of the battle. Ropes shoot from the tip of her wand and she binds them, leaves them unmoving, their mask askew, their hands limp. 

The masked figures are seemingly endless. They drop and more appear, pressing around the Aurors. Hermione fights, pacing her movements where she can. Her voice grows hoarse, her eyes burning from the smoke, tearing streaming down her face, cutting lines in the dirt and soot on her face. She can’t say how much time passes, the concept of it lost in the rote of violence, the urgent, desperate battle of burning magic.

There’s a break in the onslaught and her lungs scream, dragging in air. She turns in a circle, searching, wand ready. A spell sizzles near and she flinches, dropping to the ground. She responds quickly, leaping up, lunging forward, screaming fire from her wand. Her opponent dances, slashes the air. She feels her skin open, cries out as hot blood wells from her shoulder. She barely gets a shield up in time as fire rains down her. Her magic shudders under the onslaught, but she holds fiercely, the taste of blood coppery on her tongue. 

She is pinned down for a time, only able to defend, to dodge. She’s impressed by the power of her opponent, the raw strength behind the spells. But they are over confident, cocky, thinking her easily beat. She waits until she sees a break, flares the tip of her wand, watching for the counter curse. She sees it, green fire with the heat of a dying planet. She throws herself to the side at the last second, coming up with a sharp cut of her wand.

Her opponent staggers, wavers. They touch their chest, hand coming away bloody. Slowly, like an offering, they raise the hand, showing her the redness of it, nearly black in the light of the fire. They laugh, the sound ripping from them with a manic force, uncontrolled, laced with hysteria. 

Hermione freezes, her blood running cold. She knows that laugh. 

Reaching deep, she pulls up her last reserves of strength. She launches herself up, sprinting over the broken ground, closing the distance between herself and the cackling Death Eater. Their bodies collide roughly and she bears them to the ground. She edges her fingertips under the mask, ripping the ghastly thing away. 

Bellatrix Lestrange snarls up at her, her eyes impossibly black. 

Seizing her arm, Hermione rips up the sleeve of her cloak, baring her arm and the Dark Mark moving over her skin. 

“Why?” Hermione asks. “How can you?” 

Bellatrix backhands her. 

Hermione reels back, her lip splitting, the force of the blow setting her ears ringing. 

Bellatrix scrambles away from her, darting away. Hermione staggers after her, knuckles white and straining as they clutch her wand.

It begins to rain.

She finds her standing in a decimated sitting room, the house around her charred and crumbling, fire hissing and popping in the rain. Her wand is loose between her knuckles. Her expression is bored, careless.

“Bellatrix,” Hermione breathes, stepping into the room. Water drips from her hair, from her robes. “Please.” 

“I hate you,” Bellatrix hisses, pale, trembling. “Everywhere I turn, I see you. And it hurts. It fucking hurts. You know I have to kill you. I have to dig you out like the rot you are.” 

“I’ll let you go,” Hermione says. “Leave, Bellatrix. Please.” 

“You will let me go.” She reaches into her robes, draws out a knife. She shows it, tilting it so that the blade glints and greedily drinks the red light of the fires. “So cute. Thinking you can match me.” 

Hermione realizes with cold certainty that there is no reasoning with the witch. She weighs the knowledge, coming to a quick decision. Dread thick in her throat, she reaches out a hand, firms her stance. 

Bellatrix pauses, her head tilting. She seems almost to battle with herself, her eyes flickering quickly behind her pale lids. When she opens them again she smiles, an awful twisting of her lips. 

Hermione is ready as she lunges forward, the blade aimed at her heart. She catches her wrist, angling the knife away, pulling Bellatrix sharply against her. The witch hissing and arching against her, she Apparates. 

They land in a tangle of limbs, sharp rocks ripping through their robes, slicing into their skin. The sound of the sea is behind them. The fire of the burning village is still visible in the distance, a raging red on the horizon. She would prefer more distance between her and the Aurors, but it is as far as her waning strength could take them. Blinking up into the rain, the water like blades on her skin, she hopes it is enough.

Beside her, Bellatrix twists, looking at her with wild, bloodshot eyes. Her mouth is bloody and smeared, her teeth stained with red. The knife is gone from her hand, but she still clutches her wand. She points it.

“Crucio!” She screams it, meaning it with every fiber of her being, channeling her rage, her helplessness, all of her fear into the spell. 

Hermione knows that the Cruciatus does no physical damage to the body. It targets the nervous system, sending a signal up the spine to the thalamus, and from there to the emotional center of the brain. The message is interpreted and the brain calculates the pain, renders it and actualizes. It’s a psychological response. There is no pain but what your brain creates. 

But for her, it is agony. There is hellfire inside her body, burning the blood from her veins, blackening her organs, charring her bones. It courses through her in shocks and waves, seizing her muscles, the inside of her skull so hot she’s sure she can feel her teeth melting. She’s screaming, her throat nearly bloody with the strength of it, and she can’t stop. Her spine arches off the ground, heels dug in, fists clenched so hard her knuckles crack. 

Even as Bellatrix releases the curse, she shudders and shakes, her body writhing, outside of her control. She struggles to think, to remember who she is, where she is. Her brain stutters, trips on a loop. 

Bellatrix gives a rough laugh, watching her twist. She tilts her head back, catching raindrops on her tongue. 

“You’re nothing,” she tells Hermione. “Just a sad little mud puppet.” 

The voice inside purrs, delighted. 

Hermione’s lips move. She’s still twitching, her eyes flickering feverishly behind their lids.

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Bellatrix says. 

Hermione laughs, weakly, her face twisted with pain. 

“Something funny?” Bellatrix asks, her voice dangerously soft. 

Hermione makes a hand gesture and Bellatrix cackles. 

“You always were spirited. I can appreciate that, you know. Makes this so much more satisfying.” 

She drops her knees, hovering over the shuddering witch.

The voice inside her salivates, its easgerness gruesome, ghoulish. 

End it. Kill her. 

Shutting her eyes, she struggles against the rage in her chest, the cold fury. 

This isn’t what she wants. Never has been.

I want it.

That’s all that has mattered, since the day she was Bound. From her father to her husband, her fate is not her own. Not her desires. Not her thoughts. The only thing left of her is the cold dreaming thing in the center of her heart, slumbering and dry mouthed. Weak, so fucking weak. 

Hermione watches the dark witch waver, her stuttering mind searching frantically for the words it needs. The only way for her to survive. Some part of her recoils at the thought, disgusted to think she would ever share anything with this creature. And yet, it’s not really her. She’s a twisted thing, more so than either of her sisters. Because she fights it, struggling against the curse at every opportunity, testing it, pushing its boundaries. It has nearly consumed her, nearly destroyed her. 

Desperately, Hermione hopes something of her is left. Some small part worth saving. 

Finally, she finds the words. She speaks them frantically, the dark witch above her still weaving between some internal monologue. She wills her to keep struggling, to give her just that bit of time, that small window. There’s no strength left in her own body, all of it burned out of her. She can’t find it in herself to fight. 

Honing in on the voice’s fury, Bellatrix listens as it rises in crescendo, screeching and howling, tearing at her. She scents the magic in the air, her nostrils flaring at the smell of it, tangling with the storm, gaining its power. She feels the compulsion swell, changing focus, its voice sweet in her ear. 

Just a little cut, sweetling. Just there. Up the arm. A nice, firm pressure. Think of all the beautiful blood.

She feels herself moving to comply, calls the words to her tongue. 

A hand falls over her own, startling her. She’s almost forgotten she’s corporeal, tangible. She opens her eyes, finds a pale face pressing close to hers.

“I bind myself to you,” Granger whispers, teeth chattering. “I bind my magic to yours, my blood to yours. I will share your pain. I will share your joy. I renounce your blood ties, for you are mine and I am yours. You are your own and your will is absolute.” 

Bellatrix blinks. Something inside her clicks, some lock snapping free, a door swinging open. She rushes for it, pushing through.

Hermione presses their lips together. It’s not a kiss in the traditional sense. There is a distinctly utilitarian movement to her lips, her tongue running along Bellatrix’s lip until she finds the blood and presses her own cut mouth to it. 

As before, it’s nothing like she has experienced. It is as separate from the other Bindings as it can be. There is none of the angsty pull that she had with Andy. None of the heat that sparked and caught with Narcissa. 

This is cold. A wash of winter over their faces, the snow in the air falling like ash. They are standing on a frozen lake, blue ice as far as the eyes can see, the sky a steel gray above their heads. They are close, toe to toe, crystalized breath mixing. They seem caught, unable to move apart. 

“Where are we?” Bellatrix asks. Her voice is calm, smoky. There’s a clarity to her eyes, awareness. 

“Dunno,” Hermione says, caught up in searching her face. 

“Well you’ve done it, Granger. Have you killed us?” 

“It’s quite possible.” 

Bellatrix huffs. “Lovely.” 

“How do you feel?” 

“Like frozen shite.” 

“Aside from that.” 

Bellatrix pauses, considers. She smiles suddenly, her teeth very white. “Fantastic.” She thinks. “And hungry.” 

Hermione snorts. 

And then the ice cracks, shatters beneath them, and they’re drowning.

“Stop pacing.” 

Narcissa turns, her jaw locked, her eyes winter.

“They’ve nearly killed each other, Andy,” she says, her hands clenched. “Forgive me if I’m a bit tense.” 

“They will be fine,” Andy assures her. She presses a comforting hand to her sister’s cheek. “I can feel it.” 

It was their link to Hermione that led them to the witches. The night had been spent in knots, flowing with frightening speed between Hermione’s panic, her horror, her determination. And the pain. Gods but it was terrible, like hammer blows, heavy and unrelenting. Newly bound, Narcissa felt it most strongly, and it was like dying, the fear, the agony of it. 

Andromeda tried to reason with her, to calm her. Her own mind was panicked, her body responding against her will. Hands over her stomach, she felt the child within her stir, kick viciously. Fear bit at her, fear for herself, for the child growing in her. 

Seeing her, Narcissa twisted away. 

“It has to stop,” she panted.

And she was gone. 

She followed the link until she Apparated on a dark shore. She found them near, tangled and bloody. Their skin was cold and pale, but they breathed, their hearts weak things in the cages of their chests. Most of all, she could feel them. Both of them. The magic glowing between them, a link forged in fire and blood. 

Narcissa nearly shouted, elation surging through her. 

They are complete. 

Now, in the calm after the storm, she feels drained. More than that, she wants the witches to wake up so that she can throttle them to within an inch of their lives. 

“Go, get some rest,” Andy says. “I’ll watch them.” 

And she does. Lowering herself into a chair at the foot of the bed, she looks at the sleeping witches. They have gravitated together in their sleep, their hands touching, their hair mixing on the pillows. They are beautiful together. 

Smiling, Andy opens a book and settles in for a good story.


	6. Chapter 6

Hermione wakes with a sharp pain. 

She yelps, starting up, finds herself caught and tangled in sheets and blankets. She tries to fight loose, falling instead. She hits the floor, cracking her elbow, driving the air from her lungs.. She quickly kicks her ankles free of the offending bed clothes, righting herself. She peers over the top of the bed.

Bellatrix Lestrange points a wand at her, hand trembling. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted. 

“I will hex the shite out of you,” she promises. “Go on. Twitch. I dare you.” 

“Calm down.” Hermione says. She moves to stand but quickly throws herself back, yelping as a jinx is sent her way. Furious, she pops up and throws herself across the bed, grasping for the other witch. 

Bellatrix shouts, trying to twist away. But she’s too slow and Hermione catches her by the arm, pulling her into the bed. They struggle, Hermione scrambling at the wand clenched in her fingers, Bellatrix bucking her hips, trying to throw her.

“Get off!” Bellatrix shouts. 

“Let go of the wand, you mad woman!”

“No!” 

Hermione grunts as a knee catches her ribs. She is weak, her nerve endings still raw and chafed, but the smaller woman is equally devastated, leveling their odds. She grabs the kicking legs, pinning them down at the thighs. Affronted at the rough handling, Bellatrix redoubles her efforts.

“What in Merlin’s saggy scrotum do you witches think you’re doing?” 

The pair freeze at the voice. Bellatrix peers over Hermione’s shoulder. Her mouth falls open at the sight that greets her.

“Andy?” she says.

“Bella,” Andromeda says, her lips pressed thin. “Where did you get that wand?” 

Bellatrix clears her throat. “I, uh. I summoned it?” 

“Give it back.” Andromeda holds out her hand expectantly. 

Bellatrix hesitates, her eyes drifting to the woman hovering over her. 

“Hermione,” Andromeda says. “Let her breathe, will you?” 

“She tried to hex me,” Hermione protests. 

“Yes, yes. Move off, you stubborn mule.” 

“I am not a mule,” Hermione says. But she releases the woman below her, rolling away from her. 

“Bella.” Andromeda says. 

Mumbling to herself, Bellatrix scoots off the bed, moving to stand in front of her sister. She hands the wand over, not bothering to keep the pout off her face.

“Thank you.” Andromeda says. She breaks into a smile, throwing her arms around Bellatrix’s neck, folding her close, her face buried in her hair. “I’ve missed you.” 

Bellatrix hesitates, taken aback at the sudden contact. She swallows, gives her sister an awkward pat. She pulls away quickly, looking down between them at Andy’s very pregnant, very uncomfortable looking stomach.

“What is that?” she asks. 

“Well.” Andromeda says slowly. “When two people really love each other, or when they find each other sexually attractive they -” 

Bellatrix waves a hand, unamused. “Did Tonks do that to you?” 

“Most definitely.” 

Bellatrix shudders. “Well. I do hope it looks nothing like him. Ugly as the business end of a toad, that one.” 

Laughing, Andromeda takes her hand. “Come to the kitchen. The both of you. Family meeting.” 

Bellatrix nearly cries at the word family, her chest suddenly tight. She sobers quickly as she feels Hermione shift behind her. They look at each other, measuring. 

Bellatrix blinks. She feels suddenly anxious, her throat constricting. Her gut gives a nervous wrench and she’s afraid. 

But she isn’t afraid. It’s Granger. Twisting the hem of her stupid Muggle shirt between her fingers, her lip caught between her teeth. She is conflicted. Pleased to see the sisters reunited, but uncertain of herself, of her place. Afraid she doesn’t belong. They aren’t her family, after all. She is an intruder, an interloper. She feels like a voyeur, seeing intimacy that isn’t meant for her. 

Bellatrix feels her eyes widen, her mouth go dry.

The Bond. The fucking Bond. 

She was good at keeping Rod away, stuffing his kaleidoscope of emotions deep down. But this is new, raw, thrumming. Overwhelming. 

She knows Andy can feel it too, her expression soft as she smiles at her friend. She holds out her hand. 

“Don’t be afraid, love,” she says. “Those are empty fears. You belong here.” 

Hermione takes her hand, but her expression is still uncertain, the swell of her emotions bittersweet.

They find Ted and Narcissa waiting for them at the kitchen table. Ted beams as he sees them. Narcissa stands, sending her chair scraping across the floor. She moves, eyes riveted to Granger like she is the only person in the room. She catches her hand, brings the knuckles to her lips, her eyes slipping closed. 

Bellatrix feels her stomach wrench as the witches touch, feels something dark and angry lash in her chest, a possessive urge to step between her sister and Granger, to keep them apart. 

As if sensing her thoughts, Narcissa looks up, meets her eyes. She smirks, challenging. Bellatrix feels as if she will burst into flame, her teeth gritting, her hands locking into fists. 

“Everyone sit,” Andromeda says, eyeing her sisters with a look of annoyance. “Arses in chairs, please.” 

They do as they are told. Bellatrix tries not to notice the way Narcissa presses into the mudblood’s side. She tries not to think where her hand settles as it disappears under the table. 

For her part, Hermione feels as if the pressure behind her head will explode, splattering her brain into meat orbit, a cataclysm of finely blended frontal lobe goop. She can barely process her own emotions, overrun as they are by the other women. She can feel Andy trying to sooth her. Narcissa is smug. Bellatrix is bristling, all teeth and sharp edges. 

Narcissa touches her thigh, catching her eye, her expression concerned. 

“Okay.” Andy says, spreading her fingers over the tabletop. “Everyone take a breath. Calm down. Cool off. We’re not doing each other any favors flinging our emotions around. We have to relax so that we talk about this like mature, fully cognizant witches. Okay?” 

A few heart beats later, Hermione sighs, exhaling sharply. The thick fog lifts from her mind and she is aware of herself, the others still there, but a distant shimmer. 

Andromeda breathes through her nose. “Excellent. Now. Let’s keep it at that volume, yeah?” 

The others nod. Ted watches, his eyes darting from witch to witch. He settles on Hermione, sensing her distress is the greatest. He slides his hand over the table, leaving it just within her reach. She accepts his touch, allowing his big hand to fold over her own. He is warm, like amber, comforting. 

“Right,” Andromeda says. She looks at her sisters. “We are accustomed to this. We can block one another out. But Hermione has only known me. She is overloaded by three other women and herself. She will learn to control the Bonds, but for now, let’s be respectful and keep our pissing contests between each other.” 

Narcissa sniffs. Bellatrix glowers. But they both nod. 

“We have to establish boundaries, rules.” 

“Stay out of my head,” Bellatrix snarls, looking directly at Hermione. 

Eyes narrowing, Hermione opens her mouth to reply, but Narcissa beats her to it, scoffing. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t shout so loudly, then.” Narcissa says. “I can hear you fuming from here.” 

“Don’t be such an arrogant bitch.” 

“Don’t be such a condescending cow.” 

Bellatrix sputters. “Cow? Listen, you little arsehole. I will hex the hair right off your prim little scalp.” 

“Try it.” 

“Can we measure dicks another time?” Hermione interrupts. “I am extremely uncomfortable and I really want to get away from the lot of you so I can breathe freely for five fucking seconds.” 

“Sorry,” Narcissa murmurs. She has the grace to look ashamed. 

“I don’t have a dick.” Bellatrix says loudly. 

Hermione rolls her eyes. 

Andromeda pinches the bridge of her nose, takes a deep breath. “After this conversation, why don’t we give Hermione a bit of time to acclimate. No searching her out until she comes to you. Alright, Mione?” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Fantastic. So, to business. Mione. I am sorry. I can’t imagine what this feels like to you. For us, it’s second nature. Our blood links us as soon as we are born. We don’t know any differently. But for you, it will take time to learn control. It will be harder with two new sources, but with a bit of time and practice, you’ll be ignoring these pests like a champ.” 

“I can help you,” Narcissa murmurs, her gaze soft. 

“Cissa has always had the best control,” Bellatrix comments. “She gets it from our mother. Ever the regal ice queen.” 

Narcissa pointedly ignores her. 

“And, thank you,” Andromeda continues loudly, shooting a warning look at Bellatrix. “There aren’t words to express what this means. None of us is at our best right now, but that will change. We will grow accustomed to one another, learn each other’s rhythms. The Bond can be a beautiful thing, when properly tended.” 

Bellatrix looks down at the table, fingernail scraping a knot in the wood. She bites her lip, gathering her courage. 

“Granger.” 

Hermione looks at her. Wary. 

“I’m sorry for what happened. What I did to you. And, I - I am grateful to you. For my sake, and for my sisters. I know I’m not fully myself yet. But I will be. And we’re stuck like this now. As in the forever sense. I would like to - to get to know you. If you will have me.” 

She winces, expects to feel the other witch flare, to feel her fury raze the bond between them. But instead there is a curiosity, a ghost of a caress. She looks up, finds hazel eyes examining her, searching her face. 

“We have time,” Hermione says. 

It is not forgiveness, but it is a chance, an offering. Bellatrix warms to it, cups the flame in her palm, eager to protect it, to cultivate it. 

“There will be consequences,” Andromeda says. “With our parents. With Rodolphus.”

“Fuck him.” Bellatrix snarls. 

“And then there’s that mark on your arm,” Hermione says, leaning forward, her eyes intent. 

Bellatrix touches the mark. It’s rough under her fingertips. Her old fury rises in her chest, a sneer twisting her mouth.

“It’s for life, Granger. Just like the magic between you and I. I’m committed.” 

“To murder? Are you so empty that it’s so easy to torture, to destroy?” 

“Do I feel empty to you?” 

She doesn’t. She feels like rage. She feels like storms and new creation. She feels like raw, burning power. 

“Later, Mione,” Andromeda says. “One thing at a time.” 

“Right,” Hermione snaps. She stands. “Well while you’re off stabbing muggles, I have to report to the Ministry. There was an attack last night. People died. Innocent people. People with no stake in our war.” 

Bellatrix smiles, refusing to take the bait. “How gruesome.” 

Boiling, Hermione stalks from the room. They let her go, acutely aware of the anger snapping through her, the indignation. 

“Your wand is on the mantle,” Andromeda calls after her, wincing. 

“Must you antagonize her?” Narcissa asks, turning a cold expression on her sister. 

Bellatrix shrugs. “It’s amusing. She’s like an angry little porcupine, all prickly and puffed up.” 

Andromeda laughs. “I’ve missed you, Bella. Though I would appreciate it if you could show our Hermione just a bit more sensitivity.” 

“I’ll show her plenty.” Bellatrix grins, her teeth sharp. She turns to Narcissa. “Speaking of, when did you get so sensitive, sister?” 

Ted, having remained silent throughout the exchange, pales and looks to his wife. She shakes her head slowly, a warning. 

Narcissa meets her sister’s gaze, clashing. “I love you, Bella. But I won’t let you use her.”

“Oh, I can feel exactly how you want to use her for yourself.” 

“Jealous?” Narcissa smirks. 

“For fucks sake.” Andromeda sighs. 

“How should we do it?” Narcissa continues, leaning back in her seat, her exterior calm and controlled. “Shall we divide the days? I’ll take the first part of the week, and you can have the second.” 

“Excuse me.” Ted says. 

Bellatrix narrows her eyes, her face shifting, suddenly dangerous. “When did you grow a spine, little one?” 

“You think she is yours alone?” Narcissa says. “No more pesky voices to get in your way. I know you, Bellatrix. You are cuel. You taunted her even before Father bound you. You don’t know how to love anyone other than yourself.” 

“Here now,” Ted says. 

“I didn’t understand.” Bellatrix says, her voice cold and furious. “I was a child. I didn’t know how to respond.” 

“And you’re all better now? Fluffy, sweet Bellatrix. As likely to slit your throat as kiss you.” 

“Goddamn it!” 

The witches start as Ted slams his fist into the table. He stares at them with dark eyes, his neck flushed, his mouth grim. 

“She isn’t an object,” he says. “I don’t fully understand the Bond, but I know it doesn’t excuse your actions. She is not a toy. You will not treat her as if she is.” 

The sisters blink at him. A slow smile slips over Andromeda’s lips and she feels her heart swell, big with pride and affection. 

“If you care for her,” Ted continues, “you will treat her with the respect she deserves. She chooses, not you. Whether she wants both of you, one of you, or neither of you, you will accept her decision. And if I hear one more ill word from either of you, I swear to Merlin I will never speak to you again.” 

“What a loss.” Bellatrix mutters, but she doesn’t meet his eyes, staring down at her hands. 

Narcissa takes a breath. “I’m sorry. The Bond, it does things when there is a….romantic intent involved.” She looks at her sister, her gaze softening.”I was unkind, forgive me.” 

“Of course.” Bellatrix says. “At any rate, I don’t know if she can even stand me. She has made her disdain abundantly clear.” 

“Give her time,” Narcissa says. “In the meantime, concern yourself with your own wellbeing. You have quite a bit of catching up to do.” 

Ted smiles. In the tradition of all settled arguments, he claps his hands together. “Tea?” 

A week passes quickly. 

Hermione stays away from Andromeda’s cottage, burying herself in her work. With the amount of casualties from the battle, she finds her disappearance went unnoticed. As such, she falls back into a calm routine and dedicates time to setting her flat in order. She finally unpacks the lingering moving boxes, puts sheets on the bed. She stocks the fridge for the first time. She finds she has a lovely view of the dilapidated back garden. She spends her mornings caffeinating herself and counting the weeds sprouting up between the cracks in the walk. 

The distance dulls the Bond. It’s never silent, always an echo of someone else shivering up her spine, but the intensity is less, more manageable. She is quick to identify each link, each woman separate and individual from the others. 

Andy is familiar. She is deliciously warm, like a bit of sun on a winter’s day. But for the occasional flash, she is calm. She is content. 

Narcissa is strange to her. Oddly, she seems the most passionate of the sisters, the link alive with her curiosity and in turn, her delight, her pure excitement. To Hermione, she is like a new book, the pages fresh and smelling of ink and paper, the lines bold. 

Bellatrix is tricky. She flows rapidly between emotions. One moment calm, the next buzzing and snapping, the intensity of her overwhelming. Her moods are often dark, introspective. She is Autumn. Bright leaves and hot coffee, sharp air and clean rain.

Hermione is considering these things, her socked feet dangling over the arm of her couch, when Andromeda knocks on her door. 

“I’m sorry.” Andromeda says from the doorway, her dark brown eyes pleading. “They’re driving me mad.” 

Hermione quickly settles her on the couch with a mug of tea and pillow for her back. She sits at the end of the couch, pulls her feet into her lap. Andromeda gives an obscene moan as she presses her thumbs into her arches.

“Tell me,” Hermione says. 

Andromeda sighs, lets her head fall back. She stares at the ceiling. “Where to start? They can’t go home. So they’re at the cottage with me. All. Bloody. Day. Bella has discovered the telly and she has a schedule for all the soap operas. I swear I heard her sniffling. And Narcissa can’t keep her hands off the thermostat. Always turning the damn thing down. I can’t feel my fingers, Mione. In my own home!” 

Hermione suppresses a smile, kneading a heel. “That’s serious.” 

Andromeda raises her head, leveling a glare. “Oh, don’t bother. Ted gets the same look on his face. It’s very funny when you’re not the one losing your toes to frostbite.” 

“Can I help?” 

“Yes. Take them. One day, Mione. Take them to do the shopping. Take them to the bloody beach. Anything, woman.” 

“Love, I live in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood. Do you think it’s wise to take Bellatrix out into the general public?”

“Oh, she’s on her best behavior. You know, I saw her talking to the neighbor yesterday. They had an entire conversation about the best fertilizer for roses. And she didn’t once recommend corpses.” 

“That’s...encouraging.” 

“Hermione.” 

“Yes?” 

“Anything. I will do anything. I will bear your first child.” 

Hermione snickers. “I don’t believe we have the compatible parts for that.” 

Andromeda smirks, her eyes glinting. “Darling, you’re a witch. Nothing is impossible.” 

Hermione nearly chokes. She coughs, flushing. 

“Fine,” she says, her face hot. “I’ll take them.” 

“Lovely. They’re in the car.” 

“In the car? You horrible woman.” 

Giggling, Andromeda removes her feet from Hermione’s lap. She stands, carefully balancing herself, hand on her belly. “You should have seen their faces when I honked the horn. You would think I had summoned a Dementor.” 

Both women leap from the car as soon as Hermione and Andromeda are in their sight. Bellatrix kicks the door shut with her foot, giving the thing an evil glare. 

Eager to be off, Andromeda kisses each of her sisters on the cheek and makes for a speedy getaway. She leaves the trio staring uncertainly after her. She honks the horn as she drives away and both Narcissa and Bellatrix flinch. 

“So,” Bellatrix drawls after a moment. “Do you have a telly?” 

Inside her home, Hermione feels ill at ease watching the sisters examine their surroundings. They are accustomed to mansions, grandeur, elegant things. Hermione has holes in her socks and her rug looks as if it has been through a war. Everything feels suddenly too narrow, too shabby. 

As one would expect, books are the dominating party. Not having motivated herself to purchase shelves, they stand in piles, in stacks, covering nearly every bit of unused surface. Her sofa is a sad thing, the cushions well loved. In the kitchen, she has exactly four of every utensil, and no real glasses. Her only mug sports an image of a kitten wearing a party hat and an distrubingly happy expression. On the window above the sink is a very sad, very dead plant. The walls could do with a wash of paint. 

Narcissa seems absorbed with the pictures of her parents. She comments on the novelty of their stillness, giving the frames a shake as if it might jog the people inside to action. Bellatrix levitates her books apart, peering at the covers before replacing them in the exact order she found them. 

Nervously, Hermione clears her throat. The Bond is mercifully silent, only a vague sense of the women reaching her. 

“I quite like it,” Narcissa announces, linking their arms. “Could do with a bit of green, though.” 

“And a telly,” Bellatrix says. 

“Right. Well. To the bedroom.” 

Narcissa’s eyebrows raise. “Both of us?” 

“Yes.” Hermione freezes. Her face colors as she realizes the innuendo. She nearly dies at the matching smirks the sisters give her. “For clothes. We’re going out. You need to, ah, blend in. Unless you would like to transfigure your robes?” 

“Oh. What a shame.” Narcissa’s gaze is wicked. Her eyes flick to Hermione’s mouth, catching her own lip between her teeth.

“What a tease,” Bellatrix says, frowning at her sister. “Come on, Granger. Let’s see the rags.” 

Their sizes are vastly different. Narcissa is taller than Hermione, Bellatrix shorter and smaller in build. Narcissa transfigures an oversized t-shirt into a sundress. She eyes herself in the mirror, makes a minor adjustment to the bodice. Gauging there to be a sufficient amount of cleavage, she gives a satisfied nod.

Bellatrix mutters and digs through her closet, articles of clothing flying over her shoulder. After a considerable amount of time, she slams the door shut. She emerges a few moments later, buttoning a holey pair of jeans. She’s donned a crumpled Queen t-shirt. Her hair is loose and wild, her cheeks warm.

She looks absolutely fucking adorable. 

Feeling Hermione’s eyes on her, she raises her head. She swallows, suddenly shy, gives a lopsided grin.

“Comfortable,” she says. 

“You look fantastic,” Hermione says. 

“If a bit homeless,” Narcissa adds. She laughs at Hermione’s offended frown. “I’m sure you pull it off well, lovel.” 

“They are very comfortable,” Hermione mumbles.

She disappears into the closet, returns with a flannel shirt. “It’ll be a bit warm,” she says, offering the shirt to Bellatrix. “But we have to cover your mark.” 

Bellatrix accepts the shirt without comment, shrugs into it. 

And with that, properly attired, the witches set out. 

At Bellatrix’s urging, Hermione finds herself in a record shop. It is only she and Bellatrix, Narcissa having cast a critical eye at the little shop and declared herself happy to wait outside.  
It’s small, naturally lit, dust motes floating through the sunbeams. It smells of paper and vinyl. There are posters on the walls and a ceiling fan lazily spins above their heads. Music plays softly. The cashier watches them with an easy smile, a cigarette dangling off his lip. 

Bellatrix bounces between the isles of records, her fingers touching, shifting through the record sleeves, examining the artwork with a furrowed brow. 

“What’s this music?” she asks Hermione.

Hermione listens, cocking her head. “Bob Dylan.” she replies. 

Bellatrix holds very still, chin tilted back, her throat white, her eyes far away. She smiles suddenly, brilliantly. “I like it. It’s...melancholy. I can feel it here.” She places her hand on her stomach.

“I’m surprised. I thought maybe you would like, I dunno. Gregorian chants.” 

Bellatrix shoots her a look, her red lips curving up into a smile. “What do you like?” 

“Rock and roll, baby.” 

With a laugh, Bellatrix moves away. She eyes the cashier, sidles up to him, leans her forearms against the counter. She nods to the cigarette glowing between his teeth.

“Bum one?” she asks.

Hermione nearly dies at the frivolity of her tone, her casual slang. 

The cashier obliges. He strikes a match, lighting it for her, Bellatrix’s fingertips on the back of his wrist as she leans into the flame. She takes a deep drag, an eye closing. She holds the smoke, tasting it, considering. Exhaling, she nods.

“Put on something livelier?” she asks. 

“Sure,” the cashier says. He puts on the Stones. 

Smiling, Bellatrix gravitates back to Hermione. She leans her back against a shelf and looks at her, a lazy drift of smoke hazy in front of her dark eyes. Their shoulders touch.

“This tastes like shite,” Bellatrix confides, her voice low. “But it makes me feel….” She pauses, taking another drag as she searches for the right word. “Buzzed?” 

“It’s terrible for you,” Hermione says, plucking the cigarette from her fingers. She presses it to her own lips, takes a deep pull. She gives a cough, squinting. 

Bellatrix snickers, takes the cigarette back. 

“So.” Hermione says. The song switches, The Seeker by The Who. “How have you been?” 

“Directly to the meat of the matter, I see.” 

Hermione shrugs. 

Bellatrix watches the fan swirl. “I feel dislocated. Misplaced. Like I don’t know where to go from here. More than that, I’m pissed off. All the time. I can’t stop thinking about how much time has passed, how much I’ve missed. All these things I’ve done, it feels like I wasn’t really there. Like I watched someone else do them. But I know I’m responsible. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s difficult to make sense of.” 

“When you joined Voldemort. Was that you?” 

“Yes.” She catches the dark darkening of Hermione’s eyes and meets her gaze, unwavering. “He recognized me. He saw me. For what I was. For my potential. Not as a hole to fuck and breed, but a woman with power and might. A woman to be reckoned with. It was...intoxicating.” 

“And now? What will you do? That mark is just as much an enslavement as the Bond. He owns you.” 

“And I give myself freely. This is a mark of honor. Of pride.” 

Hermione watches her, the fierceness in her, the proud swelling of her chest. Her instinct is to argue, to point out the moral implications, the cruelty, the unnecessary pain caused. The suffering. The lives changed and destroyed. She wants to rant and rail and force her to see it all, the damage she’s done. 

But she can feel her. There is no malice in her, no evil. Just confusion, a desperate longing. To be seen, to be heard. To belong. To be real. Tangible. A powerful, wild loyalty. 

She understands. And with that understanding comes fear. Fear that Bellatrix is lost. Fear that she is unreachable, her mind and heart already locked away. Fear of what the beautiful, proud woman before her could become. 

With care, she reaches out and tangles their fingers. She squeezes until Bellatrix looks at her. 

“I see you,” she says. 

Caught in the moment, in the focused intensity in Hermione’s eyes, Bellatrix shudders, her lips parting. She searches for her words, finds herself speechless. Something roars inside her chest, uncoils in her stomach. She feels parched, desperately hungry. Reckless.

Hermione brushes her lip with her thumb, her fingers a feather touch along her jaw. 

“Don’t push me away,” she whispers. “You have nothing to prove. You don’t have to hide. I can take anything you throw my way. Understand?” 

Bellatrix aches. Her heart, her soul, every piece of her yearning for the woman holding her hand. It’s all consuming, unfamiliar, a burning in her stomach, behind her eyes, between her legs. It takes her breath away, leaves her raw and wanting. 

“Hey,” the cashier calls, shattering the moment. “You ladies partake?” He holds up a sloppily rolled joint. 

The women look at one another, Hermione raising a challenging eyebrow, her smirk one sided. 

Not looking away from her eyes, Bellatrix smiles. 

Narcissa can’t place her wand on it, but there is something distinctly wrong with her companions. 

She watches them with narrowed eyes, noting their sudden familiarity with one another. The tension that typically crackles between the two is gone, replaced by some giddy, needy thing. 

And they smell awful. 

Feeling Narcissa’s gaze on her, Hermione bites her lips, desperately trying not to laugh. She wants to smooth the blonde’s frown lines, pet down her ruffled feathers. But Bellatrix is tugging on her hand, pointing excitedly at a stand.

“Food?” she says. 

Hermione heartily agrees. 

Narcissa watches, appalled as the witches very carefully, very slowly order nearly one of everything on the menu.

A disturbing amount of sugary goodness later, Narcissa pointedly claims Hermione’s hand. Bellatrix, contrary to her typical nature, happily waves them away. She finds a spot in the sun and settles herself, legs stretched out before her. She lets out a content sigh and closes her eyes. Not a moment later she is dozing, happily drifting. 

The book shop is cool, a balm on Hermione’s overheated face. The woman tending the counter gives a suspicious sniff, eyeing her with beady eyes. Feeling perverse, Hermione gives her a wolfish grin. She lazily wonders what the woman would do if her sleeve suddenly burst into flames. Nothing harmful. Just a little heat, easy to extinguish, but sure to sting. 

Face drawn, Narcissa clutches her hand and drags her to the back of the store. She shoves her in between two teetering shelves, maneuvering her so that her back is to the wall. She puts her hands on her shoulders, peering down into her eyes.

Hermione giggles. 

“What in the world has gotten into you?” Narcissa asks. 

“I’m sorry.” Hermione coughs into her hand, tries to compose herself. “We smoked a bit of weed?” She can’t for the life of her understand why she voices it like a question. 

Narcissa’s nose wrinkles. “Why on earth would you do that?” 

“Well, it’s a Muggle drug. It, uhm, makes you happy?” 

“And ignorant?”

“Noooo. It just lowers inhibitions. It’s harmless.” 

Narcissa considers her. “I let you out of my sight for one minute and you get yourself and my sister stoned. I have a very distinct feeling that you deserve to be punished.” 

Hermione swallows, an abrupt heat pooling in her stomach. Her palms tingle and all she can see is the pulse throbbing in Narcissa’s throat. 

Narcissa’s eyes darken and she smiles, leans close.She brushes the hair from Hermione’s face and dips her head. She kisses her neck, sucks the skin between her teeth, biting gently. Hermione responds violently, arching into her, gasping, her hand reaching up to twine in her hair. A smug satisfaction comes over her, and she bites harder, laves at the soft skin with her tongue. 

Hermione moans, her hand tightening in Narcissa’s hair, nothing in existence except the sensation of her mouth on her, her skin caught between her teeth. 

“This is really not a good idea,” Hermione manages. She gasps as Narcissa withdraws, quickly silencing her with a rough kiss. 

It’s not what she expected. 

If Bellatrix is fire, Narcissa is ice. Damnably calm, her control taut, calculated. Her armor is her mind, her confidence. Her speech is refined, deliberate, her voice honeyed whiskey. 

But her kisses….god, there is no control there.

It’s quick, their lips crushing together, parting, coming back together harshly. Narcissa’s teeth capture her bottom lip, her tongue flicking out to taste her. She presses her hands against Hermione’s face, holds a palm over her throat, holding her, biting her lip until she opens her mouth. Their tongues meet and she moans into her, wants to take her over, to dominate her completely. 

Breathing heavily, Hermione pulls away. She tries to speak, wants to slow down, wants to feel everything, wants it to last forever. She opens her mouth to say so, but the words strangle in her throat, Narcissa’s thigh slipping between her legs. She arches into the contact, thinks she might just lose her mind. 

And then Narcissa is stepping away, straightening her dress with a prim look. She smiles at Hermione’s dazed expression, delighted as the other woman reaches for her. She takes her hands, presses them into the wall over her head. She presses against her fully, their bodies connecting in new, perfect ways, all heat and skin. She brushes a chaste kiss over her lips.

“This isn’t the place,” Narcissa says, her breath warm on Hermione’s lips. “I want to take my time with you.” 

Hermione’s head spins at the implications. She very nearly seizes the witch and Apparates them on the spot. But she takes a deep breath, clears the haze from her mind, controls her heaving chest. 

Eyes gleaming wickedly, Narcissa steps away from her. 

“I would cover your neck if I were you,” she says. “It looks as if you’ve been bitten.” 

Andromeda smirks at the trio of women standing on her front porch. 

Hermione’s pupils are blown, her lips swollen, and something that looks suspiciously like a hickey peeks out from under her hair. She looks anywhere but at the pair of women beside her, her face strained.

Narcissa wears a permanent smirk, obviously pleased with herself. 

Bellatrix has a mouth full of fried fish, her fingers greasy, her expression blissed out. 

“Had a good day?” Andromeda asks. 

Hermione swallows, her mouth twitching. Bellatrix and Narcissa smile. 

“Don’t suppose you will be staying, Hermione?” 

The poor woman edges away, a hunted expression on her face. 

“Sorry, no,” she says. “Busy day ahead tomorrow. Lots of strenuous, er, paperwork.” 

“Ah.” Andromeda nods in understanding. “Rest well, then.” 

Hermione gives a strangled sort of acknowledgement before hurrying swiftly away. 

“Night!” Bellatrix calls after her.

Hermione waves a hand over her head, all but running. 

Andromeda opens the door. Her sisters file past. 

“Merlin, it’s roasting in here,” Narcissa says. 

Andromeda growls. “Cissa, I will light you on fire.” 

“Fine, fine. Touchy.” 

Andromeda sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! A quick word.
> 
> Firstly, I apologize for the length of this particular chapter. It was originally split in two, but it felt very disjointed to me, so I've combined them. If you are anything like me, the more the better, but if brevity is your cup of tea....small sips.
> 
> ALSO. A huge thank you to everyone that has engaged with me and this story. Everyone has been so kind and amazing and it humbles and delights me in equal measures. I am a walking stereotype of the self-conscious, everythingiwriteisshitandeveryonehatesmeahhhhhhh writer and all the encouragement has seriously soothed my inky soul. Especially coming from people who's work I have read. You all literally make my writing look like crayon scribbles. Anyway, I can't thank you enough for spending your time in my world. It's freaking amazing.
> 
> This is starting to sound like a goodbye....But it's not! I just felt the need to say thanks and now I've said it. So thanks. Again. 
> 
> Leaving now. Bye.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks.
> 
> Just wanted to pop in and point out the rating of this story has changed. I had originally intended to keep the adult content relatively tame, but, well....that didn't happen. There is nothing that I would consider gratuitous, but I don't feel comfortable leaving it as a Mature rating considering the content of this and later chapters.
> 
> That being said, I positively cringe at writing sexual content. Not because I dislike it, but because it feels so dang weird to me. I feel as if a guy dressed in a hot dog suit is gonna pop out of my closet and wack me on the nose with a newspaper, screaming "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!"
> 
> But, I'm going to give it a spin. We're all adults here (hopefully) so have fun and please be gentle.

“If you were a chocolate, what kind do you figure you would be?” 

Raising her head, Hermione peers over the stack of reports teetering in front of her. Leaning back, boots on his desk, Mundus lazily flicks his wands, enchanting paper airplanes. He watches them fly, his expression thoughtful.

“I’m sure I would be a truffle,” he says. “Suits me, don’t you think?” 

Hermione snorts, dips her quill. “If you were chocolate, you would be old Halloween candy. You know, that bit at the bottom of the bag? The one with the tiny tear in the wrapper. You open it up thinking you’re getting a perfectly edible sweet, but what you get is a stale waifer.” 

“Well, if I’m stale candy, you’re a melted chocolate frog.” 

She feels it. Her day began the same as every other morning. Groaning and stretching, she showered, brushed her teeth, dragged herself to the coffee pot with both eyes shut. Two cups and vitamin later, she was at the Ministry’s Apparition point, elbow to elbow with the other wizards and witches off to the start of their work day. 

Being too early in the morning for mischief, she found no tasks waiting. She rolled up her robe sleeves and retrieved her favorite quill. Just as the nub snicked against the first report, a pressure began to build in her temples. It was dull, steady. She attributed it to a poor night’s sleep and too much caffeine. 

As the morning wore on, it seemed to swell, sharpening behind her eyes. It leaves her blinking and agitated, her brain a painful, throbbing mass. 

She is at her most fragile point when all hell breaks loose. 

Boots are suddenly stomping, robes whirling, voices raising, owls screeching. She winces at the sound of it, her hand jerking, overturning her ink pot. She curses, reaching for her wand, intending to clean the mess. 

“Granger!” 

She looks up, blinking. “Sorry?” 

“Merlin, you’re off today.” Mundus grabs her sleeve, pulling her behind him. “Another attack. This time, actually stay with me, yeah?” 

Her stomach goes cold. The links are oddly silent. Suppressed, not a whisper reaching her. Realization dawns on her and she shivers.

Bellatrix. 

She is whipped around, turned upside down and dumped into the mud. She struggles to her feet, blinking at the abrupt change in scenery. She stands on a field, vast and trampled. The sky is such a dark gray it is nearly black. Rain lashes down, nearly deafening in its force. Ahead of her is a thick knot of bodies, countless wizards and witches clashing, tearing at each other with bright flashes of magic. The ground trembles with the force of it, shuddering and cracking. Hermione stares in shock, her ears ringing, a high pitched whine nearly driving her to her knees. She looks down, blood mixed with the rain and mud. Her throat constricts as the smell hits her, coppery, like a dirty penny pressed to the roof of her mouth. 

Mundus is pulling her, and they’re running, rushing into the conflict with wands drawn.

She doesn’t have time to gather her thoughts. One moment she is outside the violence, the next she is in the thick of it, bodies pressing in on her, the heat of magic on her face. 

It is a massacre. The Aurors are outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed. Pressed back, they are forced into defensive positions, shielding themselves and their fellows, unable to retaliate. 

And then, the dead begin to rise. 

At the fore of the shield, teeth gritted, arm trembling with effort, Hermione’s eyes are drawn to a lone wizard. He walks at the head of the host of the Death Eaters, his face pale and shining in the near darkness. His eyes are on fire, sparking and red. Slowly, as if taunting them, he raises his hands, the sleeves of his robes rolling down his deathly white arms. His lips begin to move, the sound of his words lost in the clash of rain. Light pours from his wand, crackling and green.

The bodies of the fallen, Auror and Death Eater alike, begin to twitch, to croak. They rise slowly, as if shaking off sleep, heedless of their wounds, the pieces of flesh missing. They stand still, heads cocked, listening to the terrible litany of bile spilling from between the Dark wizard’s clenched teeth. At the end of it, there is only the sound of the rain and the panting, fearful breaths around her. 

“Inferi!” An Auror shouts. “Don’t break the line! We can hold them back!” 

Bending her knees, she digs her feet in, balancing her weight forward. She is ready for impact, her muscles trembling with fear and exhaustion. Cold dread coils up her spine. All these lives, their memories, hopes and dreams - all of it gone, erased. It will be as if they never existed. Never loved. Never feared. All of those experiences lost, meaningless.The magnitude of it overwhelms her, petrifies her. 

Hands shaking, she holds the line.

The sound of them is terrifying. They close the distance quickly, sprinting with inhuman speed.Those without legs crawl, grasping with bloody hands, dragging themselves through the mud with frightening determination. The defense shields waver, crumple under their momentum. They are unstoppable,the force of the impact scattering the Aurors, breaking them apart. Several disappear screaming into the mass of writhing corpses, their faces agonized, terrified. They are silenced quickly and the host of Inferi press on, bloody mouths howling.

Hermione finds herself on the ground, dazed. She tastes blood. She can’t feel her hands. She struggles to her feet, crying out as pain shoots up her leg. She’s nearly there, nearly standing, her wand pointed at the Inferi rushing toward her when she feels a presence at her back, feels arms catch her and rip her away. The breath leaves her lungs and she is surrounded by black smoke. 

It’s only a short distance, enough to remove them from the direct assault of the Inferi. Hermione finds herself staring up into a grinning mask. It is quickly ripped away, Bellatrix looking at her with wild, feverish eyes. 

“You have to leave,” Bellatrix says, clutching her shirt. “Now, Hermione.”

“No!” Hermione screams, struggling against her. She twists, watches with stricken eyes as the Inferi chase down the surviving Aurors. “I can’t leave them!”

“They’re already dead, you fool,” Bellatrix snaps. “And so are you if you don’t listen to me. Leave!”

Eyes blazing, Hermione rips her arm away. She puts her wand against Bellatrix’s cheek, a surge of madness ripping through her, pulling at her sanity. She wants to blast her from existence, to destroy her. They stare at one another, the world around them drained of color, the dead screaming, the living dying. 

Hermione retreats. She turns running at the horde of Inferi. She raises her wand, reaching into her blackest heart, searching for her darkest moment. She scrambles along the bond that links her to Bellatrix, drawing on her fear, her rage, adding it to her own. 

Suddenly, everything is black. The sky is gone. 

She screams the incantation and her wand erupts with fire, flames roaring to life with an unearthly howl. It breathes, fiery lungs sucking the oxygen from the air. It grows rapidly, spreading, coming to its final form. Wings of flame open, testing, flexing. Mouth opening, it screams and rips itself from the ground, burning the air with its immense heat.

It is a dragon, furious and destructive, engulfing the Inferi in ravenous, unstoppable flames. 

Watching the corpses disintegrate, floating away in a cloud of black ash and glowing embers, Hermione laughs. Tears roll down her face, tracking through the gore on her cheeks. The pain in her chest is thick, greif like shards of black ice. She can’t stop herself, hysteria cold in her mouth, taking control. 

“Take her,” she hears a voice say. It is the voice of Death, the voice of the end of times. 

And still she laughs. 

She comes to staring into a black sky.

For a moment, everything is calm. There are stars. A warm breeze licks her face, nibbles at the tips of her fingers. Her heart beats. It is steady, a warm tatoo of sound in her chest. 

She smells smoke. And underneath it, something sweet, like cooking meat. 

It all comes back to her with a scream of sound and she twists onto her side, empties her stomach onto the ground. 

“It’s awake,” comes a disgusted voice. 

“Bring her to me.” 

She feels herself lifted, hard hands on her shoulders. Her legs drag beneath her and she is deposited roughly, her knees slamming into the ground. 

A whisper of fabric and the cool wood of a wand under her chin. 

“Look at me, child.” 

She does. 

He is pale. His eyes are red, glowing. His skin is translucent, thin veins under his eyes, spreading over his cheekbones. When he smiles, his tongue is black. 

“Welcome,” he says. His voice is soft, eerie. 

Kneeling in the dirt, she is surrounded by masked figures. She feels their malice, heavy and threatening. Standing among them, Voldemort towers over her, impossibly high. He watches her closely, studying.

“I wonder,” he says after a time. “What shall I do with you now? Your colleagues are dead. A few at your hand, I would imagine. Fiendfyre is so unpredictable.” 

“No,” she says, the idea twisting her, choking her. “They were already gone.” 

“Hm. Perhaps. We can’t be sure. The fire was vast. My companions and I barely escaped with our own lives.” He cocks his head, examining her. “A strange curse for a child of the Light.” 

He claps his hands suddenly, turning with a billow of robes to address his following. “What shall do with this one?” He calls. “Shall we crucify her? Shall I make her my slave? Perhaps I will make a gift of her.” 

“My Lord,” says a familiar voice. Bellatrix steps from the circle. She bows her head low, her eyes on the ground.

“Bella,” Voldemort says, grinning. “I wondered if you would be brave enough. I can see it, you know. The magic between yourself and this….mudblood.”

Bellatrix casts a look at Hermione, her eyes unreadable.

“I see everything, Bellatrix,” he hisses. “Even now, you fear for her.” 

The Death Eaters shuffle, muttering among themselves. 

“What shall I do, my Captain? Would you like her for a pet? Or has she made a pet of you?” 

“I bow to your wisdom,” Bellatrix says, inclining her head. “Your judgement is my will, My Lord.” 

“Pretty words,” he says. “But I wonder, do you mean them?”

“Yes.” Bellatrix says. A muscle in her jaw jumps. 

“Prove it.” He steps behind her, sliding pale, thin fingers along her arm, holding her wrist. He guides her, aiming her wand at Hermione. “Prove your loyalty. Show me that you are mine.” 

She hesitates, her eyes wide open. Meeting her gaze, Hermione shakes her head, reaching for her along their bond. Reassuring her. Willing her. Begging her, knowing with cold certainty that to defy the Dark Lord would mean certain death for the witch.

Face twisting, Bellatrix breaks.

“Crucio!”

Hermione screams, her body stiffening, snapping her spine straight. She tastes blood as she bites her tongue, warm as it swells past her lips, over her chin. She loses sight, her vision narrowing to the bright light of pain bearing down on her. It doesn’t last, but it is enough to shatter her, to break apart her fragile state of being.

Voldemort scoffs as the spell ends. He looks down at the woman writhing at his feet and laughs. 

“Weak,” he chides. “I can see your heart isn’t in it. Here, allow me.” 

Crimson shoots from his wand, enveloping Hermione. He holds the spell with a grim smile, teeth bared. The light of the curse reflects on the masks of those watching, glinting in their eyes. 

Bellatrix cries out, the sympathy of the Bond feeding her the pain bursting through the witch’s body. It is but an echo, but it is enough to bow her, to send her to her knees gasping. 

“There!” Voldemort shouts, releasing the spell. Hermione collapses, her body going still, limp. Bellatrix stares at her face, her own body trembling. 

“Do you see now?” Voldemort asks. “You have to mean it, dear girl.” 

Panting, Bellatrix nods. “I see, My Lord.” 

“Good.” He smiles. “Now kill her.” 

Bellatrix stills. 

“Come Bella, what is a bit of blood? Think of it. You will be free. No longer bound to anyone but me. Wouldn’t you like that? To be mine, and mine alone.” 

She reaches out, takes the witch’s wrist. A pulse beats there, faint, weak. 

“Bellatrix.” The Dark Lord says. 

She doesn’t look at him. Gathering Hermione into her lap, she leans over her, presses her lips to her temple. She Disapparates with crack, leaving behind empty air and the smell of dark magic. 

Narcissa has felt the pain for hours. 

For baby’s sake, the sisters dim the link as much as they can, but the knowledge of the pain is still there, the knowledge that somewhere Hermione is alone, in agony. It is worse than the pain itself. 

There is a crack and both witches start, readying their wands. The front door crashes open. 

“Narcissa!”

“Bella?” 

The witch is filthy, covered in dirt and blood, her robes torn. She wastes no time, quickly taking Narcissa by the hand. 

“You have to leave,” she tells Andromeda. “Take Ted and go. Tell no one where. I will find you when it’s safe.” 

“What’s happened?” Andromeda asks, reaching for her. 

“Trust no one,” Bellatrix says. 

Narcissa gasps and they are folding through space, hurtling head first at a painful speed. She staggers as they come to a stop, catching herself on Bella’s arm. 

“Where are we?” she asks.

“No time,” Bellatrix says, pulling her by the hand. She drags her up a stone path, into an unfamiliar house. It’s dim inside, barely a flicker of light. She leads her up a flight of stairs, pushing her into a bright room. 

She finds Hermione on the bed. She is in the same state as Bella, covered in gore and mud and smelling of fire. Her skin is hot to the touch, burning. Close again, the link is a live wire, hissing and snapping. She tries to ignore it, running her wand over the witch, looking for injuries. She is relatively unharmed, minor cuts and bruises, a sprained ankle. But she shudders and shakes, tremors rolling through her body. 

“What did you do?” Narcissa hisses, her eyes snapping to her sister. 

The dark haired witch hovers, her fingers tangled, her expression strained. 

“There was a battle. I didn’t know she was there.” 

“Didn’t know? She’s a bloody Auror, Bellatrix. It’s her job.” 

“They took her. I tried to protect her.” 

“You failed.” 

Bella’s gaze snaps to her, her pale face crumpling, breaking in on itself. 

“I need ingredients. Supplies.” 

“Downstairs. Everything you need.” 

Rising, Narcissa pauses, stepping into her sister’s personal space, towering over her. “We’re going to have a long talk, you and I.” 

Bellatrix doesn’t reply, her eyes on the woman in the bed. 

Waking up is agony. 

She feels as if she has been torn apart and roughly stitched back together. Not all the pieces of her line up and they grate together, ragged and bloody. Head pounding, she opens her eyes, and shifts, groaning as she pushes herself up. 

A warm hand touches her chest, pressing her back. 

“Easy.”

She blinks, drags a rough tongue over her lips. “Bellatrix?” 

The witch hums. Hermione feels her hair touch her face, her fingers gingerly touching her cheek. 

“I thought they would kill us.” 

Bellatrix snorts. “I wouldn’t let them.” 

Opening her eyes fully, she finds Bellatrix leaning close, her eyes large and dark. There’s anxiety in her gaze, fear in the magic of their bond. Fear at what she’s done. Fear of what comes next.

Hermione remembers everything. The Inferi rising, Voldemort. The Cruciatus. She remembers the fear of dying. Even greater than that, the fear of what she might lose. 

“Thank you,” she says.

“Merlin’s milky tits. Don’t go soft on me.” 

“Bella.” She touches her neck, just where it meets her shoulder. The witch stills at her touch, meets her gaze. “Thank you.” 

Bella lets out a breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they are full of tears, clear drops quivering on the tips of her long lashes. 

Gently, Hermione draws her close, ghosting their lips together. She doesn’t press, giving the other woman time to pull away. For a moment she hesitates and Hermione is sure she has gone too far. Face reddening, she begins to move away but the dark haired witch follows her, presses their lips together with a deep throated moan. 

Her mouth is warm and wet, moving against her own slowly, languidly. She tastes like rain. 

They shift and Bellatrix moves over her, settling between her legs, joining them where they need it most. Hermione can’t help but move against her, grinding her hips up into her, groaning at the friction, the way the witch’s eyes flutter shut, the lean muscles along her back tensing. 

Bellatrix stills, leaning on her elbows. She brushes a strand of hair away from Hermione’s cheek, tucks it behind her ear. 

“Did I ever tell you that I was in love with you in 5th year?” 

Eyebrows raising, Hermione locks her legs around the other woman’s thighs, seeking comfort in her warmth. “Definitely not.” 

Bellatrix smirks. “I was. Desperately. Maybe before that, actually. The first time I saw you, I was too young to know what it was. But then, you know, puberty. Every time I looked at you, I got this feeling, low in my stomach.” 

“Here?” Hermione slides her hand between their bodies, touches her. 

“Just there. And later, when I was alone, in other places.” 

“Here.” Hermione cups her through her jeans, watching her face closely. 

Bellatrix breathes through her nose. “Definitely there.” 

Bellatrix doesn’t tell her it was those very feelings, those private thoughts that brought the Binding on her with such brutality. The moment is too sweet, the feel of her pressed against her too good. 

“I can’t say I returned the feeling. You were always such a brute.” 

“Hm.” Bellatrix shifts, the movement causing friction in the best way. They both gasp at the feeling, Hermione reaching up to tangle her fingers in her hair, dragging her down to her lips. She kisses her, sliding her tongue into her mouth. Her hand is still between them and she slides it up, over her hip, under her shirt. Her skin is insanely warm. She’s suddenly desperate to peel off every layer between them, needing the closest contact, to be around her, inside her. 

Of the same mind, Bella reaches down, catching the button of Hermione’s jeans. She gives a questioning tug and Hermione obliges, quickly unbuttoning the offensive garment. She takes Bella’s hand, guiding her, placing her flush against her. 

She is wet. Bella moans at the feel of her, biting down hard on the lip between her teeth. 

“Don’t tease,” Hermione says. 

She doesn’t. It’s been a long time in the making and it’s too perfect, feels to fucking good.

She enters her with two fingers, roughly, biting at her neck as she hears her moan, feels her tighten around her fingers, her back arching. 

“Fuck,” Hermione says. She grips Bella’s hair in her hands and moves her hips, thrusting herself onto her fingers. Pain is still alive in her body, her muscles sore and aching. But it is sweet agony, intensifying the pleasure of Bella’s touch. She wants to lose herself against her, not a word needed between them, just the language of their bodies, the rhythm as ancient and primal as the beginning of time. 

More than that, she wants to touch her. Bella’s fingers moving in her, curling, she reaches between them, unbuttoning her pants. She dips her fingers under her waistband, touching until she finds her heat, finds her wet and all too ready. She mirrors her roughness, heat unfurling in her stomach at the way her eyes squeeze shut, her mouth opening against her own, the sound coming out of her mouth pure sex.

Their movements are instinctual, their hips adding force to their thrusts. They start slow, moans low in their throats, learning each other. When to arch, when to twist, when to hold still as the heat builds, letting it cool before reigniting it with a hard thrust, a murmured curse. 

It’s soon too much, their movements losing reason, picking up speed. Bella touches her elbow, pressing her deeper, spreading her legs as wide as she can with her jeans still on. The look on her face sends Hermione spinning, gasping, focusing, desperate to see her snap, to feel her come undone around her fingers.

She does with a hoarse shout, her fingers curling inside Hermione, tipping her with her. For a moment she loses her mind, loses all sense of herself, of time, of anything other than the burning urgency that has her arching and gasping, crushing her hips into Bella. 

Shuddering, her body shivering and twitching, she withdraws her fingers, moaning low as Bella does the same. Curious, she puts her fingers into her mouth, tasting her. She nearly loses it again at the look Bella gives her, the way her eyes darken, her nostrils flaring. 

Laughing, Bella leans into her, pressing their foreheads together. 

“If this is what I get for saving your life, I’ll do it every day. Multiple times, actually.” 

Neck flushed, pupils blown, Hermione smirks. “You’re not done, are you?” 

Bella nearly purrs. “Not nearly. But, Narcissa is waiting downstairs. As much as I would like to have you all to myself, I’m sure she’ll want to see that you’re awake.” 

Paling, Hermione hides her face in her hands. “Fuck. If she felt any of that, I’m sure she is very aware.” 

Bella grins and Hermione knows from the look in her eyes she hopes her sister felt every last quiver.


	8. Chapter 8

Narcissa’s fingers are cool on her face. 

They are in the drawing room of the old house. Bella sprawled on an ancient sofa, Narcissa hovering over Hermione, poking and prodding, peering into her eyes.

“You will survive,” Narcissa says, stepping away. “Your body will need time to recover. I would recommend avoiding strenuous physical activities, but it seems it’s a bit late for that.” 

Hermione flushes under her gaze, catching her lip between her teeth as she looks down at her hands. Bella smirks from the sofa and pretends not to hear. 

Feeling suddenly awkward and edgy, Hermione stands, moving to the large bay windows dominating the room. She looks outside, blinking in the brightness of the sun. The yard is overgrown and vibrantly green, white bits of broken sculptures reaching up from between the wild tangle of grass and weeds and ivy. The low wooden fence is worn, paint grayed and flaking, falling down in places. Trees surround the property, the press of them heavy, ancient. 

“Where are we?” Hermione asks. 

“My home,” Bellatrix says, coming to stand beside her. 

Hermione looks at her in surprise. “Really? I expected more gargoyles. Maybe a coffin filled with dirt from your homeland.” 

“You think you’re witty, don’t you?” 

Hermione gives her a dazzling smile. “I’m sure I am.” 

Bellatrix scoffs, but there is no bite to her expression. “It’s the only thing that’s truly mine. Bought with my gold. No one knows. We’re safe here. As long as we stay within the wards.” 

Narcissa joins them, sitting on the window seat. She leans her chin on her hand, following Hermione’s gaze outside. “It would be lovely if it weren’t so drafty.” 

“Ever heard of a warming spell?” Bellatrix says. 

“I can’t stay,” Hermione says, cutting through the banter.

Bellatrix turns to her, frowning. “You have to. If you leave, they’ll find you.” 

“I can’t hide, Bella. I have to go back to the Ministry. I have to do something. Anything.” 

“You can’t go back.” 

“And why not?” 

“Hermione.” Her tone is careful, her expression suddenly closed. 

Apprehensive, Hermione turns to Narcissa. The blonde avoids her eyes. 

“Show her.” 

Bellatrix retrieves a folded bit of parchment from her pocket. She passes it to Hermione, holding on until the witch meets her eyes. She sighs at the look of impatience that washes over her face, lets go.

Hermione’s own face grins stupidly up at her. It is the picture taken the day her application was accepted by the Ministry. She is proud and flushing, cheeks dimpling as she beams at the camera. 

The word “Undesirable” leaps at her, the letters huge and bold. 

“This is a mistake,” she says. 

Bellatrix gives her an uncertain look, shakes her head. “They think you’re one of the Dark Lord’s followers.” 

Hermione laughs, disbelieving. “I’m Muggle-Born. How could I be?” 

“The Fiendfyre,” Narcissa says. 

“But - but the Inferi. I had to destroy them.” 

“You could have Apparated away from danger,” Bellatrix says, watching her closely. “You chose to stay.”

“I can show them my memories! Someone must have survived, must have seen me.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Bella says. “You step foot into the Ministry and you will be dead before the day ends. He has disciples everywhere, Hermione. Every department, anywhere it matters.” 

Fists clenched, Hermione turns away. “So you want me to hide. While he goes on killing.” 

“Yes!” Bellatrix shouts, losing patience. “I don’t care about anyone else. I want you to be safe. You and my sisters. The rest of the world can take care of themselves.” 

“Oh, that is rich.” Hermione is snarling now, stepping into Bellatrix’s space, pressing into her chest. “You not caring. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am. They matter, Bella. Every single person he will ever harm, ever touch. They mean something. They’re real and you can’t just let them die.” 

“I can.” 

There is finality in her tone, no room for reproach. 

Hermione steps away. She looks at Bellatrix like she is a stranger. “I almost fell for it. That mask you wear. I was so sure I saw something noble in you. Something human.” 

Bellatrix’s eyes narrow, her arms crossing. “I won’t apologize for being sensible.”

Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but just as quickly snaps it shut. With a final withering look, she turns away.

Narcissa stands. “Hermione.” 

Hermione doesn’t slow her stride. A moment later a door slams and they see her through the window, storming down the walk.

Bellatrix sighs, touches the window pane. “I should go after her.” 

“You definitely should not,” Narcissa says. She stands behind her sister, wrapping her in a tight hug. Leaning her chin on her shoulder, she watches the brunette witch disappear into the trees. “Give her time to think.” 

“She’s so…” Bellatrix lets out a sound of frustration, too agitated to finish. 

“Insufferable?” 

“Exactly.” 

“Was she always like that?” 

“Merlin, yes. Did you know she started a house-elves rights group in 4th year?” 

“Oh, the badges. Spew was it?”

“S.P.E.W. Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.” 

Narcissa lets out a snort. “What an absolutely golden hearted woman we have. How will we ever live up to her standards?” 

“I prefer to think we will bring her down to ours.” 

“I like that better.” 

Smiling, Bellatrix reaches up, touching the forearm against her chest. “In spite of what she thinks, I don’t plan to take this quietly. There is someone I need to speak to. Can you keep her occupied?”

“I’m sure I can manage.” 

Bellatrix laughs at her suggestive tone. “Be gentle with her. It was my fault, really.” 

“Yes, I could feel just how resistant she was.” 

“I’m very persuasive.” 

“As am I.”

The house is silent as Hermione opens the door. She hesitates, hovering in the doorway, her eyes peering around in the gloom. 

“Anyone in?” she calls. 

No response. 

Frowning, she carefully shuts the door. She moves along the narrow hall, passing the stairs leading up, the drawing room. She pauses outside a closed door, noting a bar of light shining from under. She knocks. No answer. 

Biting her lip, she considers moving away. She has practiced her apology in her head a dozen times already, toying with the words, rearranging them until they sound less defensive, more sincere. Really, she would like to forget the whole thing. She would love to clutch her wand and disappear on the spot, heading straight for the Ministry to straighten out the entire bloody mess. But somehow she can’t find it in herself to leave, to leave Narcissa and Bellatrix to themselves. It feels wrong somehow. They are entwined, bound. Bellatrix risked herself for her, for fuck’s sake. Arsonistic, murderous, beautiful Bellatrix. Sacrificing for her. 

She opens the door.

She finds herself in a small library. It is modest, sparsely furnished but well lit and immaculately clean of dust. Flames whisper in the fireplace and before it, curled into an overly large chair is Narcissa. Her legs are under her, her feet bare. Her hair is golden in the firelight, her hands pale and fine spread over the book in her lap. She looks up as Hermione opens and her eyes are very blue, traces of green at their center. Her face is unreadable, smooth.

“May I join you?” Hermione asks.

Narcissa nods to the chair opposite her. 

Settling in the chair, Hermione gives an uncertain smile, shifting nervously. 

Narcissa closes the book and devotes her full attention to the woman before her. Her gaze is unsettling in its intensity.

“Where’s Bella?” Hermione asks. 

Narcissa shrugs a slender shoulder. “Out doing what she does best, I’m sure.” 

“That’s not encouraging.” 

Narcissa hums, her eyes tracing Hermione’s face. “She is not a monster, you know. She loves in her own way, and she fights for those she loves. She would do anything for you. For us.” 

“That’s what worries me. Where does she stop? Where is the line for her?” 

Narcissa laughs. “There is no line, darling. Not for us.” 

Hermione meets her eyes and they are oceans, deep, unfathomable. 

Narcissa shows her teeth. Her lips are very red, her eyes suddenly darkening. 

“Immobulus,” she says. 

The spell feels like ice washing over her, starting at her feet, spreading up her legs, her hips and torso, finally her face. Alarmed, she tries to move, finds herself frozen, immobile. She wants to shout, the air suddenly too close, the sound of the fire crackling like thunder.

Touching her feet to the floor, Narcissa stands. She cups Hermione’s cheek in her palm, smiling down at her. 

“Don’t be afraid,” she says, feeling her panic, sharp and bitter along their link. “I need your undivided attention. Every time I think I have you, you go scurrying off, playing the hero. I must say, sweet. There are no heroes here. Not between my sisters and I. You are a part of us now, and I think it’s time you started acting like it. I’m owed my due. My pound of flesh, so to say.” 

She smiles again, her pupils nearly devouring her irises, leaving only a thin rim of blue. She reaches up, shrugging her robes from her shoulders. Her dress is simple, unadorned. It’s soon pooling at her feet, leaving her naked and soft in the firelight. 

If she could move, Hermione would very likely tremble. As it is, a deep flush washes over her neck, painting her face. She feels heat uncoil low in her stomach, gather between her legs, nearly unbearable. Her skin suddenly feels overwhelmingly sensitive, even the press of her clothes chafing, invasive. 

Watching Hermione’s eyes, Narcissa trails a hand over the fine bones of her collarbone, down her chest, over the soft skin of her stomach. She touches the curve of a hip, brushes her fingers over more intimate parts. 

Where Bellatrix has the body of a warrior, lean and muscled, Narcissa is all curves and pale skin, the look of her warm, like she would be exceedingly soft to hold, to touch. She turns in a slow circle, palms up, arms out, showcasing. Hermione wants to press a palm to the gentle curve of her spine, to trail her fingers over her thighs, to lick the hollow of her throat. 

Quietly, hips swaying, Narcissa approaches the immobilized woman. She touches her shoulders, holding on as she moves against her, straddling her hips. She looks down where they meet, something erotic in the feeling of the rough fabric pressing against her bare skin. She pushes the tip of her wand under Hermione’s chin, directing her gaze to her own. She glows under the fire she sees there, the desperation. 

“I wanted to be first,” she tells Hermione. “I can’t tell you how jealous I was when I felt you with Bella. It’s always been like that, you know. I’m the baby of the family, the quiet one, easily overlooked. Andy is honey and Bella is fire. And, me, you ask? I’m the control, darling.” 

Hermione is sure her brain will melt. Her heart pounds rapidly, too fast. It feels like she’s dying, but in the best way possible. 

“I have another secret to tell you,” Narcissa says. She slides her hands over the back of her neck, into her hair. She presses a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’ve never done this before. I want to experience it all, everything. But first, I think we’ll revisit that punishment I promised you. What do you say?” 

The pulse in Hermione’s neck flutters, a caught, needy thing. Narcissa presses her lips to it, tastes it with the tip of her tongue. She moves up to her mouth, sliding her palms along the line of her jaw, over her cheeks, back into her hair, tangling. She kisses her, lips yielding easily, soft against her own. She bites at her, moving a hand between their bodies to touch herself. 

Locked in her mind, Hermione is overheated, her nerves catching fire. She feels the motion of Narcissa’s hand, the backs of her knuckles brushing against the seam of her pants. Her eyes are half closed, her lips barely touching her own, her breath hot, panting. Hermione knows exactly what she’s doing, where she’s touching herself and she desperately wants to look down, wants to replace her fingers with her own. 

But Narcissa, cruel witch that she is, smirks and presses her face against her neck, licking at her skin. Slowly, tantalizing, her breathing picks up, her chest rising and falling, a deep flush touching her skin. The movements between her legs speed, and she lets out a moan, her open mouth pressing over Hermione’s pulse, her teeth sharp. 

Hermione is sure she will burst into flames at any second. Her palms tingle and her breathing matches Narcissa’s, the pleasure pulsing through the bond building with infuriating steadiness. It’s heady, dries her throat, tightens every muscle in her body with anticipation. 

It snaps like a frayed rope, unexpected in its suddenness. She feels Narcissa’s hand twist in the back of her hair, her thighs tightening, her spine going rigid. 

There is silence, Narcissa uncoiling, losing her rough edges. Pressing her forehead to Hermione’s, she murmurs, releasing the spell. 

Hermione has always been a woman of decisive action. As soon as the spell is gone, she is moving, touching, the curve of Narcissa’s hips fitting into her palms. She holds her, a hand climbing her spine, digging into her shoulder blades as she catches her lips. Narcissa smiles against her mouth, welcoming her with a firm sweep of her tongue. 

Feeling as if she has only moments, as if the world is ending and she can’t get enough, Hermione presses her back and they are on the floor. Impatient, she pulls at her clothes, shedding them without finesse. She’s vaguely aware of Narcissa pulling at the button of her jeans, dragging the material down. And then she is blissfully bare and they press together, the contact painfully intimate, achingly perfect. 

She forgets how to breathe, looking down into Narcissa’s eyes, drunk on the moment, on the power she is giving her. She’s releasing control, watching to see what she will do with it, testing her, pulling at the tension straining between their bodies. 

The moment shatters as Narcissa tilts her hips up into her, her eyes gleaming with a wicked light. Foregoing any sense of decorum, Hermione slides down her body. She drapes her legs over her shoulders, locking her arms around her thighs. Something urges her to slow down, to take a moment. She hesitates, glancing up into Narcissa’s face. Any doubts she may have had instantly evaporate. The other woman looks half out of her mind, her lips parted, her eyes sparking. 

“It’s okay,” Narcissa says, brushing fingertips over her cheek. The touch is achingly tender. “I’m ready.” 

Hermione swallows, something sweet and warm swelling in her chest, something that feels suspiciously like falling in love. 

But she’s not ready for that, not ready to think and access. Instead, she presses her mouth to her, easily parting her with her tongue. Narcissa’s hips jerk in response, a strangled gasp ripping from her lips. 

She’s never felt this before. Hermione’s mouth is warm and as wet as she is, her tongue a wicked thing, merciless in her onslaught. She teases her with slow, broad strokes, not leaving out any part of her, teasing her entrance with the tip of her tongue. Narcissa’s hands clench at her sides, her stomach rippling with fire. She finds her previous confidence flagging, the intimacy of the moment taking her by surprise. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. The noises coming from her throat sound obscene, her body acting of its own accord. She dreads to think how she must look, how silly and inadequate. 

Sensing her discomfort, Hermione pulls back. Her mouth glistens with Narcissa’s wetness and the thought wrenches her stomach, ties her into knots. She finds herself wanting to kiss her, to taste herself. 

Sitting back on her heels, Hermione reaches for her. She takes her face in her hands, brushing her thumbs over her eyebrows, over her cheeks, her lips. She kisses her eyelids, the tips of her fingers. Leaning back, she pulls her into her lap, guiding her hips so that the blonde rises above her, straddles her. Narcissa all but whimpers at the heat of her, the press of their bodies. 

“I think you might be the death of me,” Hermione murmurs. She traces her fingers over her breasts, a fingernail scraping her nipples. “You’re so beautiful.” 

She doesn’t feel it. She feels foolish, exposed. 

“Tell me what you want,” Hermione says. 

She wants everything, every last bit of energy she can give her. She wants to drink her, she wants to own her, to possess her on every level. 

But she can’t find her voice. She is uncharacteristically shy, her inexperience paining her. Everything is unfamiliar to her, her hands like two, useless things dangling at the ends of her wrists.

“Show me,” Hermione says. 

Narcissa takes her hands, lacing their fingers together. She rocks her hips, testing. Hermione moves with her, her face tightening, her normally light eyes darkening. Emboldened, Narcissa lets go of her, placing her hands on her shoulders, using them to steady herself as she grinds down.

Hermione presses a wet kiss to her chest, dragging her mouth to take a breast in her mouth. Narcissa gasps at the warmth of her mouth, the feel of her teeth biting her, her tongue just as quickly soothing the sting. 

Her hands palm her ass, pressing them more firmly together. “Like this?” she asks

Narcissa nods, leaning down to capture her mouth. 

Hermione’s hand slides down her ribs, down her stomach and then she’s touching her at the apex of her legs, stroking through her wetness, gathering it over her fingers. 

“Here?” 

Narcissa nods, gulps at the air. 

She teases her entrance with a finger, moves away, pressing her thumb firmly into her clit. She circles it, watching her face. Narcissa gives an involuntary jerk at the motion, quickly warming to the touch. Heat blooms in her stomach and she drops her head onto Hermione’s shoulder. 

“We can do just this,” Hermione says. “We don’t have to go any further.” 

But she wants more. True to her nature, she wants everything. 

Gathering her courage, she touches the back of Hermione’s hand, presses her low. She guides her inside, gasping, teeth biting into her shoulder at the stretch. She bites her hard, something feral rising in her, the heat in her stomach nearly unbearable. 

Hermione gives her a moment. She holds her hip with her free hand, pressing wet kisses to her throat. 

“When you’re ready,” she murmurs against her skin. 

Narcissa finds herself eagerly pressing down, delighting in the slight pain mingling with the pleasure. It is sharp and present, but there is no danger to it, no threat. It’s bittersweet, a beautiful give and take. 

She wants more and Hermione obliges, adding a finger. They fall into a quick, surprisingly rough rhythm, Hermione using her hips and thighs to add force to the thrusts. A harsh energy builds quickly between, lighting the air on fire around them. At their height, straining against one another, she drags her fingernails down Narcissa’s back. She follows the curve of her back, the swell of her hips, feels her skin erupt in goosebumps. 

Wrapped around her, Narcissa’s thighs tremble, the chords in her neck straining against her skin. Her moan starts low and throaty, rising in pitch, becoming more desperate. She didn’t know she could move this way, instinctual and needy, greedily taking her pleasure without a thought in mind except for the blissful end. 

It comes quicker than she expected. One moment she is floating, hovering on a wire edge, not wanting to finish, desperately needing to prolong the moment. Then Hermione shifts her hand and she’s fucking her deeper, her thumb pressed into her little bundle of nerves. Sweat breaks out on her body and she’s feverish, so hot that she’s shivering, her eyes squeezing shut. A curl of a finger and a slight pressure inside and she’s had it, clinging to the woman inside of her, crushing against her as she breaks, crashing like stormy waters on a sunlit shore.

Watching her, Hermione feels a calm come over her, a deep satisfaction. She moves with her until she’s still. She carefully pulls her hand away. She touches her stomach with her slick fingers, showing her her own wetness. 

Face hidden against Hermione’s neck, Narcissa chuckles, partly from embarrassment, but also from the euphoria making her head swim, painting the world in soft light. 

“If that’s what it’s like every time, I’m sorry I waited so long,” Narcissa says, pressing her face into the waves of Hermione’s hair.

Grinning like a fool, Hermione strokes her back. “I’m sure we can make up for lost time. Though, perhaps somewhere more comfortable? I think there’s a splinter in my leg.” 

Narcissa kisses her. “In a moment. I don’t think my legs can hold me. I feel very...unsteady.” 

Eyes slipping closed, Hermione shifts so that she can lean against the chair at her back. She sighs as she feels Narcissa rest against her chest, her hair soft on her skin. They sit quietly, as close as their skin will allow, and listen to the fire crackle. 

Warmth. All around her. The softness of sheets and skin. A warm body presses into her front, the curve of an ass against her hips. Another curled around her back, an arm draped loosely over her waist. 

She starts, her eyes snapping open. She twists to find dark eyes watching her from under a mess of black curls, an amused smile quirking familiar red lips. 

“Bella,” she says, still bleary. 

“Granger,” Bellatrix purrs. “Had a good sleep?” 

Flushing, Hermione glances down at Narcissa’s bare shoulder. Oblivious, the blonde lets out a sleepy groan, nestling further into the blankets, hiding her face. A swell of tenderness warms Hermione, but she quickly quells it, reddening further under Bella’s smirk. 

Bellatrix tsks. “Never underestimate a Black, Granger. We’re insidious. One night we slip into your bed, the next we’ll own your heart.” She cocks her head. “You’re very pretty like this. If I weren’t such an unfeeling monster, I might be jealous.” 

“Bella.” 

The raven haired witch cocks an eyebrow. “Yes?” 

Hermione sighs. Whether she wants to throttle the woman or kiss the smug smirk off her face, she can’t decide. 

“I was hasty with my words.” 

“And?” 

Hermione’s eyes narrow. “And I was unfair.” 

“And?” 

“And if you don’t take your hand off my breast, I will hex you into the next century.” 

Bellatrix obliges, but not before she gives a little squeeze. She laughs at the look of indignation that lights across Hermione’s face, leaning forward to kiss the tip of her nose. 

“Come down when you find your dignity and your clothes,” Bellatrix says, climbing off the bed. “There is someone downstairs who wants to have a word with you.” 

Frowning, Hermione watches her slip from the room. With a groan, she crawls out from under the warmth of the blankets. She shuffles groggily about the room, finding bits of discarded clothing until she is presentable. She makes her way down the stairs, tugging her robes into place and trying in vain to tame her uncooperative hair. 

She comes to an abrupt halt as she rushes into the kitchen. Sitting at the table is a familiar face, ever serious, but the green eyes sparkling. 

“Miss Granger,” Minerva McGonagall says, rising. “A pleasure to see you again. You look well.” 

Hermione croaks. Sitting on the counter next to sink, heels bouncing against a cabinet, Bellatrix smirks. 

“Professor,” Hermione says, gaping. 

“Do sit, Miss Granger. We have quite a bit to discuss.”


	9. Chapter 9

“There is a group,” Professor McGonagall is saying, “of like minded individuals. An organization, you might say. An order. They are gaining numbers by the day.” 

Balanced on the edge of her chair, Hermione nods. Bellatrix watches from her perch on the counter. Recently having joined the trio, Narcissa leans next to her sister, her arms folded. 

“They are dedicated to putting an end to the Dark Lord. They see him for the threat he is, the destruction he will wreak across not only our world, but the Muggle world as well. They’re very aware that you aren’t capable of what you’ve been accused of, Miss Granger. If you would allow me a touch of familiarity, I find it deplorable to think that a witch with your talents would be so quickly disregarded.” 

“Forgive me, Professor. Are you offering me a place?” 

“Just so. Though, I’m afraid that with the current state of affairs, there’s nothing even I can do about your current status with the Ministry. There is black rot there, corruption at the highest levels.”

“I understand, Professor. I only want to be useful.” 

McGonagall gives a small smile. “I’m sure you will be more than just useful, Miss Granger.”

Narcissa looks to her sister, her expression closed, but a question in her eyes. 

McGonagall stands, Hermione rising with her. 

“This will be the last time we meet for some time, Miss Granger. Take care of yourself.” 

“Thank you, Professor.” 

And then the witch is gone, leaving Hermione and Narcissa staring at a very pleased looking Bellatrix. 

“What have you done?” 

Hermione is surprised by the venom in Narcissa’s voice. The younger Black sister all but quivers, her face pale and drawn. 

Bellatrix meets her sister’s eyes, her gaze level. “What we need to survive, dear sister. There’s a war on, if you haven’t noticed. One must pick a side. And I do believe I chose mine about the time I chose not to murder a certain mudblood.” Sensing a bristling from Hermione, she coughs. “Muggle-born. Sorry.” 

“Let me be clear.” Narcissa’s voice is sickenly sweet, her eyes cold. “You’ve nearly killed not only yourself, but Hermione as well. You’ve painted a permanent target on both your backs. On our family. And now you think to join his enemies. Have you lost your sense?” 

“Narcissa,” Hermione begins, but quickly leaves off at the look the younger woman shoots her. 

Bellatrix yawns, arching her back in a stretch. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Cissa?” 

Somehow, the witch manages to look even more venomous. She makes a move towards her sister, but Hermione is quick to move between them, catching Narcissa by the shoulders. 

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Hermione says. “But maybe we should all cool down before we say something we’ll regret.”

“Yes,” Bellatrix says, smirking over Hermione’s shoulder. “Listen to your pet, Cissa.” 

“Shut it, Bella,” Hermione snaps.

“Touchy,” Bellatrix says. She jumps down from the counter. “Either of you know any good recipes? They’re coming for dinner.” 

Narcissa’s eyes blaze. Hermione sighs.

“Goddamnit, Bellatrix.” 

Bellatrix smiles. 

The little house, normally gloomy and dim, is bright in the night. Candles float through the air, the smell of good food and sharp drink giving the place a festive air. The magically extended dining table seats several Order members, elbow to elbow, their conversation loud and boisterous. 

“Ingenious,” Hermione is saying, her eyes bright over some tidbit Edgar Bones has explained to her. “Talking Patronuses. Brilliant.” 

Bella fights the urge to roll her eyes. The bloody Light and their party tricks. 

Down the table, crushed between two shouting wizards, Narcissa takes a deep drink from her wine glass. She meets her sister’s glance with glare, setting her glass aside with more force than necessary. 

“Tell me,” says a voice at Bellatrix’s elbow, “what has changed your mind and heart so much, Madam Lestrange?” 

Turning to the speaker, Bellatrix considers telling the old codger to stuff it, but she tames her tongue, smiling sweetly. She allows her eyes to drift and Dumbledore follows her glance. They look together at a rather animated Hermione, her eyes bright, gesturing excitedly. 

Dumbledore smiles, his blue eyes twinkling over his spectacles. “Ah,” he says. “Love it is. There is nothing quite like it, is there?” 

She shakes her head. 

“Are you prepared? Truly?” 

Bellatrix raises her chin. “I am a soldier. The side matters not to me. I will go where she goes.” 

It’s not entirely true, but close enough.

He nods, his gaze distant as he considers. “It is strange to me. I feel as if something has shifted, the future altered somehow. Do you feel it?” 

She does, a bone deep instinct that leaves her echoing and wondering what was meant to be. Who was she, the women on the other side of the looking glass? 

Dumbledore smiles and there is uncanny knowledge in his eyes. The old bastard knows something, though he would never share. 

The night passes quickly. The food is eaten, the alcohol consumed with cheerful abandon. By the end of it there is an agreed upon time and place, a task to settle the newest Order members into their roles. When all is quiet and the guests gone, a very tipsy Bellatrix finds her way to the drawing room. She pauses at the sight that greets her.

Hermione’s hand is on her sister’s cheek, her voice low as she speaks to her. Her expression is nauseatingly understanding. She’s putting off reassurance like a balm. Narcissa listens, but her lips pressed thin, her posture stiff. Her head turns as Bellatrix leans against the doorway, their eyes meeting. She quickly pulls away from Hermione, storming away with a dark glare. Both Hermione and Bellatrix wince as an upstairs door is slammed. 

Sighing, Hermione drops onto the sofa. Bella drops gracelessly next to her.

“She’s worried about us,” Hermione says. She reaches out, runs her fingers through Bella’s curls. “She thinks we should stay out of the entire thing.” 

Bellatrix leans into the contact, her eyes slipping closed. “I know,” she says. “Cissa has always had a strong opinion on what our family should and should not be involved in. She fears we’ll get ourselves blasted apart. Then we’ll be dead and she’ll be alone. She’s never done well with loneliness.” 

“And you?” Hermione asks. “I know you’re not doing this from a sense of moral obligation.” 

“Does it matter?”

Hermione considers, her expression pensive. “I suppose not. But I have a suspicion.” 

Bellatrix scoffs, rubbing her face against the back of Hermione’s fingers. “Not everything is about you, Granger.” 

“If you say so, Bella.” 

Bellatrix sits up. She grins, reaching out to tug at the waist of Hermione’s pants. “Would you like to fuck?” Her smile drops at the look of astonishment that comes over the other woman’s face. “What?” 

“Would I like to fuck?” 

“Well, yes. Doesn’t look like you’ll be warming Cissa’s bed tonight. I think you and I could make good use of this sofa.” 

The look Hermione gives her could shred steel. Without a word, the witch stands up and walks away. For the second time that night, a door slams, Hermione shutting the drawing room door with enough force to rattle the frame.

Bellatrix heaves a pillow at the closed door.

“What the hell is wrong with the bloody witches in this house?” she shouts. 

The door doesn’t reply. It mocks her with silence. 

“Oh, the smug look of you,” she says to the door, giving a threatening wave of her wand. 

The next morning, the air cool in the predawn light, Hermione smells smoke. She rises quickly, noting a lack of door as she steps from her room. She finds Narcissa standing on the landing, equally doorless. Casting confused looks to one another, the witches go downstairs. Stepping outside, walking through dew drenched grass, the pair find Bellatrix staring belligerently at a pile of burning doors. A bottle of fire whiskey dangles from her fingers, a pair of Muggle sunglasses perched on the end of her nose. 

“ ‘Lo,” she mumbles, the fire reflecting in the dark lenses of her glasses. 

Narcissa gapes at the burning pile. “What in Merlin’s fungal rotted toenail do you think you’re doing?” 

Hermione looks between Bellatrix and flames, back again. Suddenly, she throws her head back and bursts out laughing. 

“You’re mad, you know that?” She slings an arm over the smaller witch’s shoulders. 

“Stark raving,” Narcissa agrees. She snatches the bottle of fire whiskey, upending it to take a deep drink. 

“You witches are next if you slam one more thing,” Bellatrix says, her voice deadly serious. 

“Fair,” Hermione says.

Narcissa scoffs, but her lips give an amused twitch. She takes Hermione’s free hand and the trio stand with the sunrise to their backs, watching the flames lick and dance. 

“Bella.” 

“Hm?” 

“Could you please remove your elbow from my ribs?” 

“Whoops.” 

The witch shifts, moving until she faces Hermione. She presses fully against her, gripping her hips. 

“Better?” She asks. 

It’s too dark to see, but Bellatrix can practically feel the other woman’s eye roll. 

They’re squeezed together into a small utility closet in a Muggle grocery store. It’s late, well into the small hours. The Order received word of a possible attack and dispatched the witches to divert disaster. At that hour, the place should have been deserted. But there is a very bald, very drunk man on the other side of the door. He is humming to himself, rifling through a desk drawer. 

He caught the women unawares. Bellatrix had been one eyelash from stunning him into unconsciousness but Hermione had caught her wrist, dragging her into the first available hiding spot. 

“He’ll be gone soon,” she had whispered. “He’s no harm.” 

That was 30 minutes ago. Bellatrix’s already limited patience is close to expiring. 

She opens her mouth to tell Hermione just that when the witch presses a hand over her mouth. Bellatrix bites her, but Hermione frowns, shaking her head. 

There is a laugh, a chilly, mocking sort of sound. 

“Well, well, Rab. What do we have here?” 

There is a grunt, the sound of something shattering. 

“Dunno, Rod.” A deep inhale. “Smells like filth to me.” 

“You - you can’t be in here,” says a quivering voice. 

“Oh, we can be anywhere we like,” says Rod, his voice smooth and dark, bassy. “You’ve picked the wrong night, mate.” 

“It’s the witching hour,” Rab says, deeply amused with himself. 

Body stiffening, Hermione reaches for the door handle. Bellatrix tries to hold her, but the witch won’t be stopped. Hermione throws open the door, tumbling out with her wand drawn. 

She’s too late.

“Avada Kedavra!” 

The wash of green light momentarily blinds her. She blinks quickly, clearing her eyes. 

Two men stand over a very still, very obviously dead Muggle. They look up as Hermione falls from the closet, the smaller of the pair gaping like a slapped fish. The taller smiles, raising a dark brow. 

“My, my,” he says, his voice silky. “What a night this is shaping up to be.” His eyes flicker to look over her shoulder. His smile grows, his eyes shining. “And look there, my beautiful wife. Hello, luv.” 

“Piss off,” Bellatrix snarls. Her wand is drawn, her mouth twisting into a sneer. 

He laughs. “Prickly as ever. Tell me, how is the mudblood treating you? You look a bit...tense. Want some help with that?” 

Rabastan snickers. He begins to pace back and forth, his head low, his shoulders tensed. 

“What about you, Muddy,” he says, leering. “Got an itch that needs scratched? I have just the thing.” 

“Ooooh,” Bellatrix says, her tone sarcastic. “Rape threats. Scary.” 

Rodolphus chuckles. “You’re such a cunt, you know that?” 

Bellatrix yawns. Her eyes flash and she jumps forward, brandishing her wand. The brothers start at the sudden movement, flinching back, barriers popping up before them. No spell comes from Bella’s wand. She cackles, holding her stomach as she laughs.

“What a couple of twats,” she gasps, wiping her eyes. “What’s the matter boys? Are you scared of ickle wickle Bella? Afraid she might bite now that she’s not leashed?” 

“Bitch,” Rodolphus snarls. He makes a move toward her but pulls up short as Hermione steps between him and Bella. He opens his mouth, readying a spell, but he is interrupted by a well placed foot to the balls. He grunts, his face draining of color, gagging as he holds himself, bowing over. 

Bellatrix laughs harder, gasping. “Got ya,” she cackles.

Staring at his wheezing brother, Rabastan turns a shocked face to Hermione. “How uncivilized,” he says. 

The air is suddenly alive with spells. Seizing Bellatrix by the wrist, Hermione dives for the door, Rabastan following behind them. Rodolphus cups himself and staggers after his brother. 

They’re running down empty isles, boots squeaking over the tiles. Bella pulls up suddenly, staring with a wide mouth at a display of frozen dinners. 

“Is that fish and chips?” she says, awed. 

“Now is not the time,” Hermione says, grabbing her hand. 

“But we’re coming back for it, right?” 

A box of cereal explodes over their heads, showering them in bright, colorful pebbles. Bellatrix pops a piece into her mouth, crunching loudly. 

“Damn,” she says. “These Muggles really know how to make a witch feel fat.” 

“Bellatrix,” Hermione growls. She peers around a shelf, sending a blast of fire at a sweaty faced Rodolphus. 

Giving a long suffering sigh, Bellatrix rolls up her sleeves. “Yes, yes. Keep your panties on, Granger. Fuckin’ hell.” 

Another explosion, bits of chocolate bars raining down on them. Footsteps rush at them, Hermione throwing a Bombarda at the sound. 

“Bella!” she shouts. 

Bellatrix ignores her, eyes closed, lips moving. Suddenly, a portal opens up on the floor, bright red and twisting, heat pouring from it. Spitting and growling, two creatures emerge, morphing from the smoke. They are shaped like overly large dogs, bristling spines along their backs, hooves for feet, their snouts elongated. They open their mouths displaying rows of jagged teeth covered in slimy saliva. 

Bellatrix coos, leaning down to scratch the monstrosities under their chins. “So handsome,” she tells them. “Would you like a treat?” 

The creatures snort, pouncing forward playfully, twirling. 

Bellatrix smiles indulgently. She conjures a large plushy, gives it a squeak. The creatures watch with excited, beady eyes, their bony tails wagging. 

“This?” Bellatrix asks, brandishing the toy. 

The creatures howl. 

“Fetch!” 

The creatures leap after the flying toy, their hooves clacking and sliding over the tile as they chase the plushy. There’s a squeak and a growl. And then a hoarse scream. The sound of scrambling, of ricocheting spells. 

Reaching down, Bellatrix pulls Hermione to her feet. She gives the witch a critical eye, dusting cereal from her shoulders. Spotting a bit of melted chocolate on her face, she wipes it with her thumb, giving it a lick. 

She freezes, head cocking. “What in unholy hell is that awful noise?” 

Sirens, wailing, drawing close. 

“That’s our cue to leave,” Hermione says. 

“Wait.” 

Bellatrix disappears. She returns with an armload of fish and chip dinners, her smile triumphant. 

“You know how to cook these things, yeah?” She asks, offering her arm to Apparate. 

“There are instructions,” Hermione says, linking their elbows. 

“I can’t read Muggle.” 

“Honestly, Bella.” 

The witches disappear with a crack.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I'm posting the final chapter and epilogue together. They are separate obviously, but I have both sitting on my computer and I couldn't bear making you wait an entire day for the last bit. Enjoy!

They come for them at night. 

Hermione and Narcissa sit on the sofa in the drawing room, their thighs pressed together, each witch lost in her own book. There is a rare calm. 

Months have passed since that first dinner with Order. Each day saw escalation, new horrors, more names added to the death lists. Trust was a rare commodity. There were spies everywhere. People were dying and Dark creatures had taken up Voldemort’s mantle, eager for the chaos and violence. While Hermione found herself drawn deeper into the Order, Bellatrix was held at a distance, suspicion inherent. 

“Trust is earned,” Hermione told a fuming Bellatrix. “You have to give them time.” 

“All I’ve done is earned,” the dark haired witch snarled. “They point and off I go, running headless and half cocked. And still I can feel their grubby little fingers digging at my mind.” 

There was nothing she could say. The mark on Bellatrix’s forearm was a black, pulsing brand. Permanent, irrevocable. 

Idly, Narcissa brushes a finger along Hermione’s wrist. She smiles at the gesture, flipping her palm over, tangling their fingers. She cants her head and Narcissa leans forward, her eyes closing, her lips parting. 

The sound of cracking air splits them apart. Hermione leaps to her feet, her wand ready. There are shouts, running feet. Narcissa is suddenly at her side, eyes wide and alert. 

“Stay with me,” Hermione says, catching her hand. 

Narcissa nods and Hermione opens the drawing room door. A large man takes up the doorway, his robes tight and ill fitting. His skin is opaque, his eyes a glowing amber. He grins, showing off pointed teeth. 

“Hello,” he says, his voice like a can of rusty nails. “Don’t you both look absolutely scrumptious.” 

Narcissa blasts him with a spell, white light exploding against his chest, repelling him away from them with a burst of wonderfully violent force. He smashes into a wall and lays still, the front of his robes smoldering.

Surprised, Hermione gives her a grin. “Well done.” 

Narcissa raises a finely sculpted eyebrow. “Always underestimating me.” 

An unfamiliar voice shouts and the witches rush from the room, making a quick break down the hall. They pass through the kitchen, sliding into the back door as boots thunder behind them. 

Cold air bites at their cheeks, snow crunching under their feet as they run toward the safety of the trees. They’re nearly there, muscles screaming, hearts pounding, when black smoke billows around them, dark robed figures coming to form. Hermione pulls up short, chest heaving, nearly crushing Narcissa’s hand in her own.

There are three of them. They are masked. They drift apart, slowly circling the women.

“You,” one says, voice muffled. They point to Narcissa. “You may live. There’s no need to waste such pure blood, sister.”

“You,” says another, leveling their wand at Hermione. “Would you like to die slowly and in pain, or quickly and in agony?” 

Narcissa presses into her back. The bond between them is sparking, twisting with glowing magic. Hermione feels her intent clearly and she readies herself. 

“Very well,” Narcissa says, stepping away from Hermione. “Take her.” 

“Give me your wand,” the original speaker says. 

Narcissa does. The Death Eater chuckles, turning to Hermione. 

“Have you decided, Mudblood?” 

Hermione locks gazes with Narcissa. Abruptly, the link between them snaps taut. A surge of heat rips through Hermione and she screams, her magic ripped from her body, fueling the pulse glowing inside Narcissa. The Death Eaters start, backing away. 

Narcissa drops to her knees, pressing her palms into the ground. The snow melts around her, hissing, boiling as it becomes water, burning her hands, singeing the air. The ground trembles, cracks opening up in the earth, spitting twisting black flames. No heat emanates from them, but they burn nonetheless, turning the dirt black, writhing as they engulf the Death Eaters. 

Standing at the center of the black fire, Hermione remains untouched. The Death Eaters scream as the flames take them over, burning away their robes, melting their masks. Their flesh peels back from their bones, and in turn those very bones burst with sparks of glowing embers, disintegrating. 

And still the fire rages, Narcissa trembling on the ground, her hands wreathed in flames. Muscles protesting, Hermione stumbles to her. Her knees impact against the ground and she takes the shaking witch by the wrists, pulling her away from the ground. The spell ends instantly, the flames hushing from existence.

Narcissa raises her hands. Magic dances over her fingers, red light with the heat of a sun. 

“You’ll have to teach me that sometime,” Hermione says, her mouth tasting of ash. 

Trembling, Narcissa gives a weak laugh. “Can’t. Family secret.” 

There is a silvery flash of wings. Hermione looks up. A familiar Patronus circles above her. 

“Attack on the Ministry,” Dumbledore’s voice from the phoenix. “Come quickly.” 

“I don’t think I can fight like this,” Narcissa says. 

“I know.” Hermione gently takes her face in her hands, kissing her softly. “Find somewhere safe. I’ll find you.” 

“Your magic,” Narcissa protests, clutching at her robes. “I took so much.”

“I’ll live.” She hopes. 

Narcissa’s face twists and she presses a rough kiss to Hermione’s lips. She pulls away and her eyes are the blue of the sky on a cloudless day. 

“Hermione, I - “ 

“No,” Hermione interrupts her. “Don’t you dare. Not like this.” 

A tear slips down Narcissa’s cheek and Hermione catches it with her lips. Taking a breath, she stands. With a final look, she is gone, leaving behind smoke and ashes. 

The normally crowded Ministry is eerily empty, Hermione’s footsteps echoing off the marble. 

She expected fire, destruction, a raging battle. Instead, she is greeted with silence. 

Months have passed since she last walked the Ministry’s halls, but it’s as familiar as an old friend. She finds her way easily, wand in hand, her body tingling with anticipation. 

It isn’t long before she feels another's presence. She tenses, her teeth gritting, gathering her magic. She spins, a spell already at her lips. She quickly swallows it.

“Bella.” She breathes a sigh of relief. 

The dark haired witch is dressed oddly in a bygone style. Flowing black skirts, a corset laced with red leather. She does not speak as she looks up at her, her onyx eyes reflecting the flickering lights. 

Concerned, Hermione reaches for her. 

“Touch me and I will shred you where you stand,” Bellatrix snarls. 

She feels it suddenly, like a faucet opening, malice beating like a heart rush, blood red. It’s feral, wrapped up in pain, throbbing like a fresh wound.

Eyes widening, Hermione steps away. 

“Bellatrix.”

“That’s right.” Her face is twisting, turning ugly. “Do you see now?” 

“I see.” Ice settles over her, the cool calculation before battle. 

“Don’t feel too bad about it, Muddy. I’m an old hand at hiding all those pesky emotions.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I hate you all!” Her rage is violent, terrifying. “With your moral high ground. With your condescending fucking voices. You think you’re so right? You shed the same blood I do. You murder. You tear apart families.” 

“Voldemort wants power, Bellatrix. He doesn’t care for you, or your cause. He would feed every single one of you to the machine of war if he knew it would gain him what he wants.” 

“I would proudly die for him. But not this. Not that fucking Order. Those old fools. They don’t see you, Hermione. They don’t see how powerful you are. How powerful you can become. It doesn’t have to end here. Come with me.” 

She holds out her hand, her face suddenly open, hopeful. 

“We can be together. No one standing between us. You and I. The way we were meant to be. We will make the world tremble.” Her voice is certain, seductive, as if she could paint the future with her words alone.

Hermione looks into her eyes, her throat suddenly tight, tears stinging her eyes. 

“Hermione. Please.” Bellatrix steps close. She touches her face. “No harm will come to you. Just say yes. Take my hand.” 

In the distance, there is a shout, the sound of something ripping apart, the sound of someone dying. Calm certainty settles over Hermione and she steps away, Bella’s fingers slipping from her cheek. She swipes at her face with a wrist, clearing the tears from her eyes. 

“One warning, Lestrange,” she says with a voice that is not her own. “Walk away.” 

The light goes out of Bellatrix’s eyes. Her face twists with hate, teeth bared. 

“Crucio!” She screams. 

But Hermione is already moving, dodging behind a pillar to block the curse. Months of fighting together have accustomed her to the witch’s dueling style. She knows very well what spells she will use, how she will move. This time they will be a match.

She hears the witch’s boots pounding over the marble and she whirls from behind the pillar. Their wands raise at the same moment, the light of their magic clashing like lightning, battling, surging together, an ouroboros of energy. It’s impossible to hold, Bellatrix the first to release the spell, spinning away with a mad cackle.

How she loves the hunt. It makes her blood sing, makes her feel like a wild, hungry thing. This hunt will be the best, the ultimate battle. After all, how much can you love a thing if you’re not willing to kill it? 

Rock shatters at Hermione’s feet, a barely missed spell breaking apart the floor. She feels bits of the marble fly into her face, cutting her. The pain is minor compared to what will happen if Bellatrix gets the upper hand. She counters with a flourish of her wand, driving the witch back. She does not relent, pulling deep for every last drop of power, her movements quick and sure. There is a moment where she is sure she has her, Bellatrix’s face pale and strained, her usual confidence gone. A rush of triumph burns through her and she calls the final spell to her mouth. 

Hermione screams as a spell hits her in the back, sending her to her knees. She falls heavily, striking her head on the floor. Her legs go numb, her stomach suddenly oily and sick, the room spinning. 

Eyes wide, Bellatrix looks at the caster. He is young, grinning foolishly. 

“Looked like you could use some help,” he says. He looks down at Hermione, gives her hip a sharp kick. “Don’t thank me all at once.” 

Bellatrix reaches into her robes. “Never touch what is mine,” she snarls. 

She opens the boy’s throat with a harsh slash, the dagger in her hand eager for blood. He falls quickly, clutching his throat, his eyes wild and full of fear. 

Bellatrix doesn’t watch him die. She turns to look at the woman on the ground. She stands very still, her face splashed with blood, black gore dripping with a pitter pat to the floor. 

Carefully, tenderly, she rolls Hermione onto her back. The woman groans, eyes fluttering. Hitching up her skirts, Bellatrix straddles her, leaning down until they are nose to nose. 

“It’s no fun like this,” she says. “But I can’t let you walk away without something to remember me by. Every day of your life, you will think of me.” 

She grabs Hermione’s forearm, holding her down with a knee on her wrist. Tongue bitten between her teeth, she sets the tip of the dagger to her skin, and she begins to carve. 

Hermione screams, writhing. Her wand is out of reach, the pain in her arm blinding, every little slice like a burning brand. 

“There, there,” Bellatrix says, leaning back to admire her work. “Look how lovely.” She holds Hermione’s head between her hands, presses a wet, forceful kiss against her lips. “Do be sure to show it to my sister. She’ll love it.” 

She shoves the witch back, unheeding of the way her head cracks against the marble. She stands, straightening her skirts. Humming a tune, she steps over the blood and the corpse of the young Death Eater and sets off at a leisurely pace, her heart light. 

She’s going home. Back to her Lord. 

She is sure she is dead. The light is painfully bright and white. She feels weightless. Really, she feels like shit. 

“She’s waking up,” says a voice. 

“Give her room to breathe.” 

“I am. Maybe if you would let go of her hand for five seconds, someone else might be able to say hello.” 

An indignant sniff and a gurgle that sounds like a….baby? 

Blinking, Hermione tries to swallow. Her throat feels rough and raw. Her arm burns when she tries to move and she nearly cries out, biting at her tongue. 

“Easy,” says a soothing voice. “There’s no rush.” 

A face comes into focus, dark hair, large brown eyes. 

“Andy?” 

Andromeda smiles. “Hello, darling.” 

“God, you are beautiful.” 

“So are you.” Her cheeks dimple as she smiles. 

“Oi,” Ted says. He’s at the foot of the bed, a noisily slurping bundle against his chest. “That’s my wife you’re talking to.” 

“No one wants your wife, Ted,” Narcissa says. She gives Andy a nudge, making space for herself at Hermione’s side. She smiles down at her and her eyes are very blue, gentle.

“Wow, thanks,” Andy says. 

Hermione stares at the baby nestled against Ted’s chest. “Is that…”

“Nymphadora Tonks, the most beautiful baby you’ve ever laid eyes on? Why yes, you are correct.” Ted moves to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning down so that Hermione can peer through the blankets to the infant inside.

She smiles when she sees Hermione’s face, blowing an impressively large spit bubble. Her hair turns pink and she laughs. 

“Wow,” Hermione says. “She’s...she’s...wow.” 

Ted smiles softly. “Yeah, me too.” 

“If the baby fever is hitting you, I still owe you that firstborn,” Andy says. “Say the word and I’ll brew the potion.” 

“What?” Narcissa and Ted say together. 

Hermione blushes and Andromeda laughs, her eyes dancing. 

“What happened? And where am I?” 

“Mungo’s,” Andromeda says. “You were in bad shape when they found you. Lucky Dumbledore was there. They nearly carted you off to Azkaban on the spot when they realized who you were.” 

“And why didn’t they?” 

“With the attack on the Ministry, a few of the corrupted officials were uprooted. Using your work for the Order these past months, Dumbledore was able to convince the Minister that you are most definitely not a Death Eater.” 

“How convenient. He couldn’t have done that sooner?” 

Andromeda shrugs. “Does the man ever make sense?” 

Hermione swallows. “Bellatrix.” 

“We know,” Andy says. Her eyes stray to Hermione’s bandaged arm. “I’m sorry, Hermione. We had no idea. Truly.” 

“She’s gone. I can’t feel her.” 

“The bond is still there,” Narcissa says. “You didn’t put restrictions on the bonding and so she is free to do as she will. And obviously very able to cut us off from her.” 

“I don’t understand. Why?” 

A throat clears from the doorway. Dumbledore stands there, hat in hand, his bright eyes painfully gentle. 

“Might I have a moment, Miss Granger?” 

The others file from the room, Narcissa lingering a moment longer, her fingers carefully touching Hermione’s hand. With a dark look in Dumbledore’s direction, she leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. 

Hermione examines the wizard as he makes himself comfortable. He retrieves two sweets from his pocket, offering them. 

“Lemon drop?” 

She shakes her head. 

He unwraps them carefully, popping them both into his mouth. 

“You knew,” Hermione says after a moment of silence. 

“I suspected,” he acknowledges. “I had hoped she had overcome her demons. I hoped time in your presence would ease her mind, would realign her. I was wrong.” 

She wants to shout, to break everything in sight. 

“I am terribly sorry,” he says. He falls silent a moment, his eyes distant, as if in another time, seeing another face. “It is a terrible thing to lose a loved one to the Dark,” he says after a long silence. “But we must go on, Miss Granger. We must keep fighting. Men like Voldemort can never triumph.” 

“I know,” she says. But it doesn’t ease her. It makes her feel like a blunt tool, rusty and ill used. 

“Can I count on you?” 

She meets his eyes. “You can, sir.” 

“Thank you. Ah, before I forget.” He reaches into his robes, retrieves a card. A small black kitten dances across it, batting a ball of yarn. The signature is familiar, brings a smile to her lips. 

'I hope this finds you well and recovering. Come find me when you are back on your feet. 

Best wishes, 

Minerva McGonagall.'

Watching her over the rims of his spectacles, Dumbledore gives a soft smile. “You are loved, Miss Granger. Never doubt it.” 

“I don’t, sir.” 

He nods, standing. He pauses on his way to the door, glancing back at her. “Shall I send Madam Black back to you?” 

“Please.” 

He nods, winks. “Get well, Miss Granger. Our work has just begun.” 

And he is gone.


	11. Epilogue

1981

Standing next to Sirius Black, Hermione looks up at the smoking remains of the Potter’s cottage. Gingerly, she lays a hand on Sirius’s shoulder. She expects him to flinch away but at the gentle touch his face crumples, his shoulders slumping inward. He bows his head, eyes squeezing tightly shut. The grief pouring off of him is an animal thing, visceral and all consuming.

Rocking a bundle in his arms, Hagrid watches, his big face pale under his beard. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione says, her heart aching for the young man.

He looks up at her, a sudden desperation in his eyes. “I didn’t do this,” he says. “I should have been here. I could have - I could have -” 

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s done. It’s out of your hands.” 

He nods, looking to the baby in Hagrid’s arms. He steps forward, holding out his arms. “Let me take him.” 

“No,” Hagrid says, with surprising force. At the surprised look on Sirius’s face, he deflates, gentling his voice. “I - I can’t. It’s only on account of Dumbledore. He says I’m ter bring little Harry to him. Only him.” 

Sirius nods, accepting. “Probably for the best. Take my motorbike, Hagrid. Keep him safe.” 

The big man nods, solemn. 

Sirius turns, melting into the crowd of curious Muggles gawping at the smoking cottage. 

“May I see him?” Hermione asks. 

Hagrid hesitates, but seeing Hermione’s shy smile, he relents, bowing so that she can see the little boy. 

Looking at the Boy Who Lived, she feels something inside her tremble, a sense of recognition. He is very small, tufts of unruly black hair spiking out of the blankets. His eyes are bright green, his mother’s eyes. There is a scar on his forehead, still red from the heat of the curse - a bolt of lightning. 

“I have a little one just your age,” she tells him, brushing the tip of a finger over his cheek. “I have a feeling you will be fast friends one day.” 

“He’s beautiful,” she says to Hagrid, pulling away. “He’ll be alright, won’t he?” 

“Aye,” Hagrid says, his lip trembling, eyes shining. “Dumbledore’ll see to him.” 

Hermione nods. “Be safe.” 

“You off to celebrate?” He asks. 

“Not yet,” she says. “I have some unfinished business.” 

Much like Sirius, she melts into the crowd. 

“Damn it, Bellatrix,” Rodolphus growls. “I’m fucking cold.” 

“Shut it,” the dark haired witch snarls. “Or I’ll warm you up with a nice bit of fire.” 

Barty Crouch Jr. giggles, hiding his mouth behind a forearm. 

Glaring at him, Rodolphus shrugs deeper into his robes, rubs his hands together. “Where is the bastard?” 

As if on cue, a tall man comes into view, striding down the street. He is humming happily, his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t see the Death Eaters melt from the shadows until it is too late and they are on him. In the blink of an eye he finds himself trussed and wiggling on the ground. A well placed kick silences his shouts. 

“Lovely,” Bellatrix Lestrange says, leaning down so that he can see her wild eyes. “I’ve been looking for you. We’re going to have a chat, you and I.” 

Cracks split the air, cloaked figures snapping into existence. Caught by surprise, the Death Eaters are slow to react and quickly overwhelmed. Face pressed to the ground, thick ropes binding her arms and legs, Bellatrix twists and screams until it feels as if her throat will rip apart. She goes abruptly still as she feels a familiar presence, a ghost of feeling tingling up her spine. Boots stop in front of her face, knees bending until she sees a face. 

The woman she had known had been 20 years old and fresh faced, all freckles and large eyes, the only rough edge to her the scar on her lip. The scar an angry, twisting, love struck idiot had given her. Eight years have passed since she last looked on that face. She looks much the same, but her gaze is deeper, that favorite scar much paler, barely there. She has to squint to see it, but it is there and it brings a familiar calm to her burning mind. 

She wonders about the other scar. Just the thought of it, that hateful word etched into beautifully pale skin, makes her smile and she giggles.

Hermione watches her. “Bellatrix,” she says. 

“Hello, Muddy. How’s tricks?” 

The Auror considers her, expressionless. “Why Frank Longbottom, Bellatrix? The war is over. Voldemort is dead.” 

“Don’t you dare say his name!” Bellatrix screams, the chords in her neck standing out in sharp relief. “Not from your filthy mouth!” 

Hermione hums. “No matter. Whatever your reasons, you’ve failed. Much like everything else.” 

“How?” Bellatrix hisses, her eyes burning. “How did you know?” 

For a moment, Hermione almost doesn’t reply. Then she smiles, her own eyes full of darkness. “Because you’re still mine, Bellatrix.” 

Bellatrix screams. 

Warmth greets her, the smell of cooking food, the sound of laughter. Quietly, Hermione shrugs out of her robes, stowing them in the closet. She takes a moment, allowing her mind to shift, to push away the darkness chewing at the edge of her mind. 

A familiar voice catches her ear, tugging at her heart, and she grins. 

Her heart swells at the sight that greets her, warming her. Andy is on Ted’s lap, her arms around his neck, her smile at full wattage. Narcissa’s eyes are dancing, her cheeks ruddy with laughter and too much wine. On the floor, Nymphadora changes her nose to a pig’s snout, crossing her eyes. The baby pressing against her knees cackles, shoving a fist into his mouth. 

Grinning, Hermione ruffles Dora’s hair and scoops up her son. He smiles up at her and she marvels at how much he looks like Narcissa, the same bright blue eyes, the pale hair, his perfect little eyebrows. 

“But you’re brilliant like me, aren’t you?” she says, snuggling him. He giggles, touching her face with his sticky little hands. 

“I would like to think he gets it from both of us,” Narcissa says, giving her a mock frown.

“Of course,” Hermione says, sitting next to her. She shifts Draco, resting him carefully against her chest. “But Slytherin intelligence is a bit….different.” 

“I resent that,” Andy says. 

Narcissa touches her thigh, catches her eyes. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice low.

Smiling, Hermione takes her hand. “I’m perfect,” she says. “You’re perfect. I’m just….happy.” 

And so, wrapped in magic and candle light, the little family celebrates well into the night. Outside the sky is alive with owls and fireworks. Some distance away, a boy with a lightning bolt on his forehead is sleeping as he flies over Bristol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Listen. I tried to give Bella a happy ending. I begged, I cajoled, I made airplane noises. No matter what I did, she turned her snoot up. So now she can sit in Azkaban and think about her poor choices.
> 
> Joking aside, I rewrote these last two chapters multiple times. It may not look like much, but once you've been writing for 3 hours and you've only managed to tap out 350 words and they are all absolute doodoo, and there are plot holes fucking EVERYWHERE you start to get a little squirrely. If I was using pen and paper, I would have slaughtered an entire forest. As it is, my Google Docs is smoking and coughing and barely alive. 
> 
> What can I say? I feel like this story could have gone on indefinitely, but I'm a goal kinda girl. If I stretched this into 100 chapters I would have gotten discouraged and never finished the damn thing and that isn't fair to anyone. 
> 
> That being said, I'm not nearly done. My lusty writer's eye has been side-eyeing Fleurmione fics for some time and I already have a few chapters completed. I have a million other ideas, even a few related to this particular story. So you will see me around. Probably more than is healthy, actually.
> 
> Lastly, thank you, Reader. You are all the absolute fucking best. It doesn't matter if you lurk or engage, either way you took time to read my drivel and I adore you for it. Especially those of you who have been kind enough to leave a comment each chapter. I can't say how encouraging and awesome and absolutely badass metal that is. Virtual hugs all around!
> 
> Stay safe, happy and sane.


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